My Boy
by SomethingGold
Summary: The father of three boys, Mr. Mellark strongly identifies with his youngest son - Peeta. From the day he was born, Peeta had his father's heart. But trust is a fickle thing and sometimes it takes a tragedy to shed light on the things lost. Story from Mr. Mellark's POV that runs pre-Hunger Games to the end of Catching Fire. Every review/favorite/follow is greatly appreciated!
1. The Third Mellark Boy

**A/N -** _Throughout this story, I do use an abundance of direct quotes. These don't belong to me - they are Susan Collins' :) . If you find a mistake in any of the chapters, just let me know. Reviews are appreciated, as always. They help me as an author know what I need to fix and what people think, so please- review! Chapters get longer, too._

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My wife didn't want another baby. We had two boys already who would take care of us in old age and inherit the bakery we own in the heart of District Twelve. A family of four is plenty of mouths to feed, and though we've never been at risk of starvation, it does get tiresome to have only stale bread to present to your family at meals. Day after day, night after night - our coal-blackened district barely scrapes by. And then, of course, there's the reaping. What a world to bring even one child into, but three? It's a parent's worst nightmare: to lose the thing you love most - the child that you would protect with your life.

But another baby comes. Peeta is born with a dusting of pale down on his head and bright blue eyes. They are warm, despite the cool color. When he cries, my chest twists in pain. He's so innocent. So vulnerable. How can such a thing even exist in the grimy world we live in?

And then he smiles for the first time. A little toothless, lopsided grin. One glance at him and I melt. Gone are my apprehensions about having a third little boy. As I rock him to sleep, I vow to protect him. He's ours now. Such a little ray of light should never be extinguished by the evils of this world.

It's too bad his mother doesn't see what I do. She's been hardened over the years and anger usually masks her pain. When she looks at Peeta, she doesn't see a little boy. She sees dwindling money and numbers that don't add up. She sees one more thing to get attached to. Because she of all people knows that the more you love something, the harsher the pain when it's taken away.

My wife's parents died at an early age that awful winter influenza swept the district and she and her brother were brought up in the community home. It's a formidable place that no child should ever be susceptible to. It's a daily reminder that they no longer have a place. As fate would have it, her brother was reaped the last year he was eligible. When he was killed in the initial bloodbath, something ignited within her damaged soul. Those Games left her to slowly deteriorate into the down-trodden, fire-spitting woman she is today. And I can't say that I blame her because it's not hard to hate the world we live in, what with the Capitol dictating every move and people dying of starvation all around us, but we're lucky. We get to work in the warm bakery and always have some kind of food - no matter how stale or burned. She doesn't see things the same way, I guess.

Despite our differences, though, the little blonde-haired blue eyed boy in my arms needs our guidance and shelter.

 _As long as you live, Peeta,_ I think. _I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe, I promise._


	2. I Think I Love Her

"I'll be waiting when the day's over."

I'm outside the school building, watching my older two sons bouncing up the steps, jostling their friends on the way inside. A new school year, a grade higher. For them, it's just another day. But for the boy shadowing me, it's much more than that.

Peeta is five years old and today, he starts school for the first time. His eyes are wide and thoughtful as he takes in the scene. He seems to register the details of our surroundings, taking it all in. While all my boys definitely inherited my physique, Peeta's the only one who I believe got my same shyness. The other two are sharper tongued and rash, more like their mother.

Even though all the kids his age are lining up at the door, Peeta is still hesitant to leave my side. His blonde curls shine golden in the morning sunlight. Looking up, I see a little girl his age join the line. Her brown hair is plaited in two neat little braids that hang down the back of her red plaid dress. I know who she is, having kept tabs on her mother.

"See that little girl," I say to Peeta. "I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner." I know he won't really grasp everything I'm saying, and it's more for my sake than his, but I hope the story will make him forget some of his nerves.

"A coal miner?" he frowns. "Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"

My heart gives a little twinge. I'm quiet for a moment, recalling the strong young man she'd fallen for. "Because," I say at last, "when he sings… even the birds stop to listen."

My son's face fills with awe as he processes what I've said. It takes a moment, but eventually he lets go of my hand and joins the rest of the line. I swallow hard as they go into the school building. They grow up so fast. Too fast.

.

.

Later that afternoon, I wait outside for the boys to be dismissed from school. The older kids come out of the building first, calling out to one another, and going on about coal and math and teachers. The younger kids follow, a little less boisterously. Unlike his brothers, Peeta doesn't say a word the whole walk home. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure he's alright, but he doesn't look unhappy - just thoughtful. He's not a word waster... like me.

When evening falls, my wife goes to the public market to barter for some spices and herbs. She's much better at that than I am - she can haggle the price like nobody else. The older boys are upstairs, messing around with some schoolwork, so it can only be one person that I hear pad downstairs and creak the door to the kitchen open. I hurriedly finish closing up the shop in the front, then duck into the back.

Little Peeta is covered in flour from head to toe. He has put several ingredients in a bowl, but has combined wet and dry ones, so it is more of a mush than a batter.

"What are you trying to make, Peeta?" I ask, my heart quickening as I realize what a fit my wife will have when she sees all this wasted flour. It costs so much and we have barely enough as it is.

"Strudel," he replies without looking up.

I'm speechless for a moment, then pull myself together. My wife may be good at the market, but the kitchen is my place of strength. "Peeta, the first thing you need is a recipe."

He looks up at me uncomprehendingly. "But I watch you make this all the time."

"But recipes help guide you until you can memorize them," I explain, sweeping the flour that can be salvaged bag into the tin. "That way, you don't make a mistake."

"Oh," he looks down at the bowl, then back up at me. "Can you teach me how to do recipes?"

Despite the mess and the wasted, precious ingredients, I have to smile. "Of course. But you need to understand something first. These ingredients are valuable. They are rare. We must only use what we have to when making something."

He nods earnestly.

The next few hours I spend in the kitchen with my youngest son teaching him how to make his very first strudel. His hands are steady, and even at this young age, I can see he'll be a great baker one day. I try not to help too much, just instruct him, because the first step to learning is discovery. The result isn't the prettiest item, but in Peeta's eyes, it's the very best thing he's ever made. It's his masterpiece.

"What are you going to do with it now?" I ask him. My wife will kill me for wasting the time and the resources to make this good that we can't sell, but one look at the pride on my son's face and I decide I made the right decision. "Eat it?"

"No," he inhales the smell wafting from the pastry. "I'm giving it to someone."

"Who?"

"Katniss."

Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. The daughter of the fair haired-woman I'd fallen for so long ago. I smile sadly the memory of her gentle hands, her intense look when making brews, and I nod slowly.

"I'm sure she'll love it," I tell him. "Why don't we wrap it up and you can give it to her tomorrow?"

I decide to hide the strudel on the top shelf of the pantry. I know my wife will never allow Peeta to just give away a pastry without payment, even if it isn't window display material. I'm just clearing a space for it when I hear the sound of the door opening in the front. My wife calls my name a few times before coming into the pantry with a bang.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asks. "I've been looking everywhere." She notices the pastry in my hand and her expression darkens. "I knew it! You squirrel away food and expect the rest of us to live on the hard stale food no one will buy!"

Pushing me aside, she steps onto the stool and grabs the strudel, looking at it in disgust. "What is this? she glares at me. "I'll get one of the boys to feed it to the pig."

I want to say something, tell her to just let it be, but I've never been good at standing up to people.

Peeta begins to cry as he looks at his pastry being mangled in his mother's hands. All his diligent work will be stepped on by the disgusting animal out back.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" She gives him a seething look and turns to go.

"Wait." It comes out barely above a whisper.

She turns on me, a snarl already on her face.

"That's Peeta's. He made it."

" _Peeta_ made this?" she scoffs. "That's why it looks like it was plucked from the garbage. Don't you understand that we don't have the money for him to waste ingredients? It's your job to keep him in line. If his grimy hands touched it, no person in their right mind will buy it - not even the filthy Seam customers. I doubt the pigs will even touch it." She wrinkles her nose and shoves the pastry at me. I cradle the squashed little thing and kneel down beside Peeta.

"Here, son."

He studies it, turning it over in his hand. "It's broken," he whimpers.

"But I can fix it," I assure him. "It's what I do. That's the great thing about building with bread and dough - you can always reshape it." I take his hand and lead him back into the kitchen. Using a little butter and many years of practice, I'm able to press it back into a more appetizing shape.

"There. Good as new."

Peeta, who's eyes are still red, looks at the pastry. "Thank you, Daddy." He carefully takes the pastry, then reaches up for my hand.

As I tuck him into bed that night, Peeta asks me a question.

"Can you teach me the valley song?"

"The - the what?"

"The valley song," he repeats, folding his little hands over the blankets.

"I'm - I'm sorry, Peeta, but I don't know that song. And anyway, I can't sing." Whistling is about as close as I get to making music.

He looks disappointed for a moment. "Oh. She can."

I don't need to ask who he means. "So could her father. Did she sing for you today?"

Peeta nods his head. "Uh huh. And you were right. The birds were listening."

I smile, thinking that little Katniss Everdeen had a very special gene pool. As my son lies down, I pull the blanket up to his chin. He has one thing left to say before I leave.

"I think I love her." Then, his eyes close and he's asleep.


	3. Broken Trust

"Did you give her the strudel?" I ask when Peeta and I are alone in the kitchen the next day.

He shakes his head.

"Peeta, I'm sure she would have appreciated it." I pause, thinking of Katniss's mother. Another thought crawls into my consciousness. "You asked why her mother went with the coal miner, didn't you? Well, I don't think it matters now, but she never knew I had a thing for her. I was always too shy to approach her and talk. Don't let that happen to you or she might slip away."

He's quiet, absorbing what I've said. That I too was shy. That it cost me. After a moment, his eyes train on my hands as they knead dough for tomorrow's loaves. Forward and back, push and pull. The waves of heat emitted from the ovens plaster his curls to his forehead and little pearls of sweat form on his upper lip.

"Can I try?"

I nod, giving him a small chunk. After explaining the difference between using the heel of your hand and the fingers, I let him have a go. He's not bad and I make a mental note to have him help me with the kneading when he's old enough. My strength, my shyness, and his mother's perseverance.

Not a bad combination.

Fall turns to winter turns to spring turns to summer and then back to fall. The seasons march on, as do we. I was right about Peeta being a natural born baker. He spends most of his free time apprenticing me. Years later, his face still lights up when I show him a new way to mold or a technique for piping. Like it is for me, the kitchen is a safe place - so different from the coal-stained world outside. The warmth, the smell... it's not hard to fall in love with it.

All my children are great bakers, come to think of it. Raw talent, I suppose. But there is one thing that Peeta outshines everyone else in the kitchen - even me. He frosts his first cake when he's nine years old and we're all so shocked at it's beauty (even his mother although she tries not to show it) that it becomes his unspoken job. The older boys don't have the patience to frost, and my hands are old. They shake sometimes and lines turn to squiggles. But Peeta has the steadiest strokes I've ever seen. The window is stunning when filled with his creations. It's just too bad that most people can't afford to buy them.

His steady hand reflects his personality. Even and patient. He's also quite resourceful. Peeta's figured out how to slip away from his mother when she's in a mood. He doesn't like it when she starts yelling and usually finds an excuse to leave until she's worn herself out. But sometimes, there's no way out of my wife's hurricanes. I see the places where her angry hands have hurt our children, the way they skirt around her, how they're afraid to make a mistake.

Like his brothers, Peeta is dead terrified of his mother, but there's also a shadow of something else. I don't quite know what it is, but he's the first to say something to me about it. When he's about eleven, I see he's sporting a black eye.

"Did you get into a fight?" I ask.

He shakes his head and continues towards his room. He doesn't have to say anything, but I know. He's taken another beating from his mother. I try to turn a blind eye towards the way she mistreats our children. I'm not good with confrontation; I'll only make things worse. Maybe even get beat myself. It may be the cowardly thing to do, but it's how I keep the balance.

Halfway up the stairs, Peeta stops and turns around. "Why don't you ever say anything?" he mutters. His voice is unusually bitter.

Keeping my eyes on the ground, I don't answer. How can I? Should I apologize? Tell him I'm sorry that I try to keep myself safe too? When my wife gets angry, there's nothing anyone can do. It's the years of suffering and pain that come through. Agonizing, silent minutes pass and then, I hear my son turn and continue to his room.

After that, there's a definite coolness between us, as if he no longer completely trusts me. I know I've failed him.


	4. Katniss Killed This?

Katniss Everdeen shows up at my door for the first time that next spring. The mine accident had taken her father about a year ago and I'd heard rumors that her family wasn't faring well. Peeta hasn't spoken about her in awhile, but I still think he's got a thing for her. The way he gets temporarily distracted when she and her sister pass by the window or how he makes a habit of walking home the same route as they do. Little things, but they don't escape me.

I wonder if I should get him now. But Katniss holds up a squirrel before I can make a decision.

"Trade?" she asks. "For some bread?"

I take the thing and look it over, searching for the puncture. She must have hunted it illegally. Then I see how she's killed it.

"You shot it in the eye, didn't you?" I ask quietly.

She nods tersely. "With a bow."

I don't say anything else. I just go inside, get two small loaves of fresh bread, and make the trade. Technically, I should have given her only one loaf, but Peeta likes her and it makes me feel better to know I'm doing something for her mother. No shame in giving someone a bit of help.

That night at dinner, my wife eyes the squirrel meat wearily. "Where'd you get this?" she asks.

"Cray was trading them for the heels of bread. To make bread pudding." I lie.

She eyes me. "You payed him the heel? No one asks for the heel."

I nod and take a bite.

My boys don't seem to care where I got it. It's been so long since we had fresh meat. It's been winter and the trades have been more for paraffin and wool - not game. Despite her grumbling, their mother inhales the meat leading me to believe she was just as ready for fresh food as the rest of us. She catches me looking at her and glares at me. "I've got to deal with the budget."

She's better with numbers than I am. I bake. She handles the money. That's how we keep the equilibrium.

Peeta watches as his mother lays down her fork and leaves the room. At thirteen, he's more observant than most kids his age. It's my own personal theory that baking replenishes the soul. It's quiet, rhythmic, and allows you to think. "Dad, where did you actually get the meat?" he asks once she's out of earshot.

Shrugging, I take another bite. "Traded it."

"But surely not with Cray. He couldn't catch a squirrel if it was sitting on his boot," his brother says. "How he got the job of Head Peacekeeper is beyond me. I guess human targets are larger - easier to hit."

"And no one trades for heels. Not even for pudding."

My boys are much too clever for their own good. "The little Everdeen girl was over here earlier," I say, careful not to make eye contact with Peeta. "She killed this squirrel with an arrow to the eye and I was so impressed I gave her some bread for it."

Peeta, who'd taken a sip of water, chokes and has to be pounded on the back. Eyes streaming, his face has turned the color of beets. "K-Katniss killed this? She was _here_?" he wheezes.

I nod, glancing quickly at the other boys who are smirking at their younger brother. I hold their gaze and shake my head ever so slightly.

My wife reenters the room. "Where the hell -" she scans the room and notices Peeta, who's now so red he's hard not to notice. "Peeta," she says sharply. "Dear God, are you catching something? Your face is red as a raspberry."

"It's - um - very hot in here," Peeta mutters, standing up. "I'll go splash my face."

His brothers roll their eyes at each other. When their mother leaves the room again, I take the chance to say something to them. "Don't tease him."

"But Dad, he -"

"I know," I say wearily. "Just, let him alone, okay?"


	5. Sugar and Numbers

Peeta, that's too much sugar," I say, reaching across the counter to stop my son from putting in a quarter cup too much. Sugar is one of the hardest items to get right now. While I'm mixing up a raisin nut loaf, Peeta's in charge of making a hazelnut pecan cake. It's supposed to be hearty - something that could serve as a meal and not just a dessert.

"But Dad, I tasted it," he says, hand still hovering with the sugar. "It needs something."

"Peeta, we can hardly get the sugar to last through the week. I'm sorry, but you'll have to make do."

"The hazelnut has an aftertaste! Can I at least use honey?"

I'm about to remove the measuring cup from his hand but stop when I feel a sudden change in the temperature of the room. The door's open, letting in the cooler air from the outside flow into the kitchen. I know before I turn around who's standing in the doorway.

"Peeta!" my wife barks, striding across the floor. "You think you know more than your father? A trained baker versus a fourteen year old adolescent? When he tells you no more sugar you listen _without_ being disrespectful."

Sweat glistens on my son's upper lip. He nods and puts down the measuring cup. In one, quick motion, my wife cuffs him on the left ear, then dumps the sugar back into the bin.

"I don't know when it became okay to directly defy your father's orders, but listen here young man! This is not your kitchen. In _this_ kitchen, your father is in charge. You listen to him, you do what he says, and you don't contradict him." Another blow to the other ear. "Now, finish this cake - the counter needs cleaning up front."

Peeta doesn't say anything, even when my wife leaves the room. His ears are bright red from the strikes. He doesn't say anything, even when my wife leaves the room. If I had just let him use the sugar, maybe she wouldn't have hit him. But we _are_ running low and we can barely afford it. Maybe I should have been quieter when I first told him. Explained it, but not reprimanded him. At the very least I should have stepped in and handled the situation before she clobbered him.

"If you want, I can wash the counter up front," I say in a low voice.

"No, that's okay. I'm almost done here." He doesn't meet my eyes. Both his ears are scarlet.

"Peeta, it's fine. I'll-"

"Dad, I can handle it." His tone isn't _harsh,_ but it's not his usual forbearing one. I don't know if it's just the way I feel, but I can almost the hear the disappointment. As if I've let him down. Again.

He finishes up the cake and I don't try to speak to him again. Dinner is subdued. Peeta doesn't talk and neither do I. His brothers must pick up on the tension because, for once, they don't have anything to say. The only break in the silence is my wife's occasional huff. The bread is stale and over-mixed - it would be tough to chew anyway - but tonight it sticks in my throat more than usual. I keep replaying the feud in the kitchen and wondering how things would have gone had I spoken up. I can't come up with a satisfying answer.

When the boys go to bed, I tell my wife that I'm going to ready the final loaves for tomorrow's stock. I'll be up early to put them in the oven before the first customers come in, but they need to finish rising through the night.

"You need to be more assertive with that boy," I hear her say.

I turn around, half expecting a blow. "Sorry?"

"With Peeta. Make him listen to you. He thinks all of the ingredients in the kitchen are at his mercy. I've seen the way he mixes things up. Tries a bit of this, a little more of that. Maybe some people in this country can afford to do that, but we can't. I've been looking over the numbers and we need to sell an awful lot if we're going to make it through the month."

"I know," I mutter. "But he's creative. It's in his spirit, can't you see? Trying new things in the kitchen brings him so much joy."

"There isn't room for joy and creativity when the district is starving." She turns on her heel and leaves the room.

For a long while, I don't move. Perhaps I've misjudged her. After all, I'm not the one doing the budgets. Of course, there was no reason to hit our son. She _struck_ him. Twice. What can I do though? I won't tell Peeta he has to stop experimenting. I could never do that. So, I'll do nothing. Stand and wait for fate to play its cards. It's what I'm best at.


	6. The Reaping

Though my boys never need to sign up for the tesserae, the reaping still brings us a sleepless night and racing hearts. My three sons come downstairs dressed in their finest clothes for their mother to inspect. This year, our oldest is no longer entered in the reaping, but that still leaves two of my children with their names in the bowl.

I can't stand to look at them in their reaping outfits for any second longer than I have to. Heading to the kitchen, I hear a quiet knock on the back door. Gale Hawthorne stands outside, holding a squirrel. It's become custom to see either him or Katniss holding up game, ready for a trade. It's an unspoken agreement between us that I'll buy their squirrels when my wife's not around. If she only knew... well, things wouldn't be to hot for any of us.

Being from the poorer part of Twelve, Gale has a much higher chance of being reaped than my sons. His name is probably in there double, maybe even triple than the required entries. I feel a slight swooping feeling in my stomach. In just a few hours, his name could be drawn or one of my sons. Merchant or Seam, this day brings us all closer in a way. The thought that our population will decrease by two today … it's depressing.

I hand him a generous amount of bread, feeling as though it might be the last he ever eats of my cooking should his name be chosen.

"Thank you," Gale turns to go.

I clear my throat, wanting to say something to him. "Good luck today."

He gives me half of a wry smile. "Thank you, sir. To your sons as well."

There isn't much time for lunch and no one feels like eating anyway. The hot day and the heavy clothes add to the feeling of being pressure cooked.

District Twelve begins to file into the square and the adjacent streets. My two younger boys don't turn around to look back at me before signing in. They gingerly take their places, one with the eighteens and one with the sixteens, before I lose sight of them in the sea of heads.

A man asks for bets on the two kids to be chosen, but I politely decline. It's sickening that people can actually try and make money on the reaping when it hurts so many of us. Effie Trinket and the mayor walk out onto the stage and say the same thing they do every year. The sun beats down on the square and all around people begin to pull down collars and fan themselves with their hands. I'm used to stuffy, hot places, working with the ovens and the fire, but it's still near unbearable as Effie reads out the first name.

"Primrose Everdeen."

I catch my breath. All I can think about is that poor woman who was once the object of my secret affections. Going from a merchant to a Seam widow, and now she's lost a child to the reaping. Primrose must be only twelve years old - her first year. I let myself imagine that I'd married her mother and it was our little girl that was walking stiffly up to the stage. I've almost got myself believing the scenario when I hear a cry from somewhere in the crowd.

Katniss Everdeen in pushing past people, trying to reach her sister. The pain in her face, the anguish in her voice makes the whole thing more nightmarish. The Peacekeepers block her path, holding her back. And then she's shocks us all. She volunteers.

In a flash, I see the girl who brings me squirrels so perfectly shot right in the eye. I see the way Peeta looks at her and how he blushes whenever anyone mentions her name. Peeta! I search the crowd, scanning the backs heads looking for his. I locate him. Even though I can't see his face, I know what it must look like. The shock will have registered now. I realize how hard these Games will be for him - he'll have to watch that girl murder and get murdered in the arena. Twelve never wins the Games. The odds are not in her favor.

I'm so caught up that I barely notice Haymitch Abernathy, our previous victor, falling off the stage in his drunkenness. Effie looks so frazzled by him and the sudden turn of events that she doesn't bother dragging out the boy tribute picking.

"Peeta Mellark."

What? What did she just say? My boy. She just called _my_ boy. I feel my family stiffen next to me. My eyes are still locked on our youngest son's blonde curls and he pauses, then climbs up the stairs to the stage. Now I see his face. Everything but his eyes are void of emotion.

As if it's being rewinded, I see bits of my youngest son's life. The little boy learning to knead bread. Asking me to teach him to bake. Making his first swipes with a piping bag. Walking bravely up those steps on the first day of school. All for what? To lead to this moment? He'll be gone. Dead. I'll never see him again.

Peeta's hands don't tremble when he reaches to shake Katniss's hand - they never do.

The doors to the Justice Building slam, taking my son with them.


	7. Goodbye

"You have three minutes." A peacekeeper's gloved hand holds open the door and the rest of the family follows behind me. My son is standing by the window. He turns and walks toward us.

His brothers put their hands on his shoulder.

"You're strong, Peeta, don't count yourself out."

"Yeah, let this be the first year someone dies from frosting or something."

Peeta doesn't say anything at first. He just lets his eyes roam hungrily on all of our faces. I want to say so many things. About how he brings the steadiness to the family. About his presence in the kitchen. How I know he no longer relies on me like he used to. Doesn't have the same faith that is so beautiful in younger children. I want to tell him I'm sorry that I've let him down as a father and that I really do love him. About how much I'll miss him. Too many things to say and not enough time. Besides, I'm not good with words. Luckily, he is.

"Look, you guys don't need me, really. It won't be easy, but you still have four of you and the bakery - you're managing a lot better than others in this district. I'll be okay. My last few days will be spent being fawned over in the Capitol. These Games - they're just like all the others. Dead children. But you've gotten through years of them - what's one more? Just, try to understand and don't waste time crying over me." Despite this advice, his eyes are not dry. In fact, tears are threatening to spill over.

His older brothers ruffle his curls. "Peeta, you'll come home -" they start to say, but are cut off by my wife.

"Who are you kidding? He's not going to be able to kill that Everdeen girl. His knees wobble every time she's within twenty feet of him. And I doubt he'd know how to anyway. She's strong. Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. She's a survivor that one."

Though the time isn't up, she turns and leaves the room. I want to follow her, but I can't leave without saying one last thing to my son. A final goodbye because I _know_ that he won't come home. I can't let him leave without knowing that I tried.

"You go on," I tell the other boys. "I'll be right there."

They give Peeta a final clap on the back, then exit the room slowly. The door clicks behind them and I try to organize the thoughts spinning around and around in my brain.

"Peeta," I say quietly. "Peeta, don't let what your mother said hurt you. She's upset, but she's wrong -"

"No," he says, really crying now. Peeta can always tell when I'm lying - when anyone's lying come to think of it. "Dad, she's not wrong. I can't kill her and you know it. So, I'm going to ask you a favor."

"Peeta -"

"Go say goodbye to Katniss. Tell her you'll watch over her sister and mother. You loved her mother, didn't you? Don't let them starve and don't let _our_ family starve. Please, Dad."

"Why?"

"Because it's my last gift to her."

Suddenly, he's five years old, giddy with pleasure as he looks at his strudel that he made for Katniss. He never could let her go. I nod.

The clock is ticking so I choke out a few words. "I - I know I wasn't perfect, but - I did try to be a good father. I want you to know."

He looks at me, his eyes wanting so desperately to believe me. "You didn't ever protect me. You just let her hit me over and over. You stood and watched because you were scared."

"I know," I mutter. "It was wrong."

"And - and you always let your fear get the better of you. You're - you're -" he struggles for a moment, but I know what he's trying to say.

"I'm a coward?" I ask, giving him a sad little smile. It's true. "You're right. I am. I just wanted - needed you to know that I failed you as a parent and it hurts."

Peeta blinks hard, holding back tears. I don't know if he'll respond, but I hold out my arms. He looks at me for a moment, deciding, and then walks into them for the first time in years.

"Goodbye Dad," he chokes out. "Thanks for - everything."

I blink back tears, holding on to him so tightly I worry the Peacekeepers will have to pull him from my arms. I never want to let him go. The family needs him. I need him.

I lean down and whisper into his ear. "I love you." Now that I think about it, I can't remember the last time I said this to him. All those years when we had nothing but time.

He pulls back, his blue eyes meeting mine for what I'm sure will be the last time. "Me too." He stays in my arms and I run my hands through his blonde, soft curls. The warmth from his body rushes into mine, but for once, it doesn't heat me up. I wish I could say more. Peeta deserves more. He still has so much to offer this world. His beautiful, steady piping skills. The way he can manipulate words with such ease - string them together into something beautiful. I recall all the times when he would bury his nose in fresh bread after a difficult day and the look in his eyes when he was really focused on something. I reach down to brush a tear from his face, but the door opens before my hand reaches it.

"Time's up."

Arms pull me from the room. The last thing I see is Peeta standing in the middle of the room, his arms still hanging in the air, the tears still wet upon his cheeks.

Outside the room, the Peacekeepers push me forward until I've met up with the rest of our family.

My wife hands me a bag. "You forgot to give him these."

I tune her out, staring at the gift I'd forgotten. Cookies. His favorite kind, too. I turn to the guard, pleading. "Please, just let me give these to my son."

"Your time is up, sir. Move along."

"Please!"

The guard shoves me farther from the door. "Sir, we must ask you to leave. You had your time."

My wife rolls her eyes and starts down the hallway. "Well, no point in hanging around here anymore." The words themselves are harsh, but her voice lacks the usual anger. As she turns away, I see the tears in her eyes. My wife, who yells and beats our children, is actually crying. Maybe she did care about Peeta and he never knew. He'll die thinking she hates him. It's this thought that turns me back to the Peacekeepers.

"Just one more thing," I promise.

My son's last request of me still rings in my ears.

 _It's my last gift to her._

The guard is still blocking the way to the other rooms. "May I please say goodbye to Katniss Everdeen?"


	8. Despicable Games

_Disclaimer: I do use a couple direct dialogue quotes from the book in this chapter. I don't own them - I just wanted to keep it as close to the books as I could just from a different POV._

* * *

Despite what Peeta said, about these Games being the same as always, our family stills treats the days following the reaping as a mourning period. We stay inside, doors shut. I still stock the counter at the bakery and our customers offer their condolences, but there's no joy in the activity. All I can think of is somewhere, my son is being shipped off to his death.

Not right away of course. First there's the tribute parade, the interviews - time for the country to get to know the tributes. But too soon, he'll be in the arena.

On the night of the interviews, Peeta comes out on stage. They've shown us shots of the tributes in training these past few days and so far, my son looks healthier than I've ever seen him. Clearly he's been well-fed and pampered in the Capitol.

Now, it's slightly odd to see him next to Caesar Flickerman - who's been on TV so often for all our lives that he doesn't seem like a real person anymore. But the two of them sound like they've been friends all their lives. I might even find myself laughing if it weren't for the fact that tonight might be his last night alive.

Then, Caesar asks if he has a girlfriend.

I can feel everyone in the room hold their breath. His brothers glance sideways at each other. I expect Peeta to decline, to brush off the question - it's what I would do - but Caesar won't take no for an answer. So my son starts to describe his crush - a girl who hardly knew he existed until the reaping. Caesar's got the audience involved now, telling my son that when he wins, this girl will have to go out with him.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning… won't help in my case," my son says, looking sad. I realize what's coming and I can tell by the looks on my family's faces that they do too.

"Why ever not?" Caesar is clearly baffled. A victor usually has their pick of the litter. Lovers from the Capitol, the districts - everyone wants to be their significant other.

There's a long pause and then - "Because… because she came here with me."

The ax falls, the blows sinks in and the Capitol audience erupts. The cameras smash cut to Katniss Everdeen's face - bright red and looking anywhere but the camera. I can tell by the confusion that she wasn't aware of Peeta's infatuation with her. Poor girl.

My wife sniffs. "I don't know why everyone's so shocked - anyone with eyes can tell he's mad for that piece of Seam trash. I didn't even know what her face looked like until the Capitol cleaned the grime off it."

I realize that my son's is probably one of the most memorable interviews of the night. Maybe our son does stand a chance in these Games after all - at least for a bit. Because this announcement is sure to have gained him a few sponsors and those silver parachutes may be the difference between life and death for Peeta.

"That's sure to get them sponsors," my son echoes my thoughts. "I mean, besides the beasts from Eleven and Two, I can hardly remember anyone else."

"Well, there was that girl from One…" his brother lets out a long whistle. "Why even bother putting clothes on?"

"But Peeta could totally take her. I mean, in the arena, it won't matter who's the sexiest, right?"

"You boys are forgetting where we live. Twelve doesn't ever win the Games. If they're lucky, they'll make it past the bloodbath tomorrow, but don't count on it. Believe me. I know." My wife turns her face away, staring out at the dusk.

Her eyes follow the road, stained black with coal dust, as it winds off into the rest of town. I know she's thinking about her older brother, the community home that raised them, and that awful morning at the Cornucopia the day he died. Tomorrow our son will be in a similar situation - another Games, another arena. Only one person will come out alive and, like it or not, she's right. It won't be Peeta. Twelve doesn't win. We don't train tributes and most of us don't bet on them. We just live from one year to the next praying the name that comes out of the bowl isn't our kid.

I knew it before, but suddenly there's not a doubt in my mind. The Hunger Games are despicable. They take people we love - brothers, friends, sons - and end their lives for entertainment. How do we live in a world like this?


	9. A Risky Gamble

Last night, my dreams were filled with awful images of my son skewered, poisoned, stabbed, and beheaded. Truly, is there anything worse than your child's life ending before your eyes and there's nothing you can do about it? As a parent, it's my job to keep him safe. If I can't do that, then what am I really? And I can't. Not when he's in the arena.

The Games start at ten, enough time for the Capitol residents to rise and have a leisurely morning. But for us in the districts, we're expected to get on with our day. Go to work. Make breakfast. Everything sets my teeth on edge today.

My boys suggest we watch the Games in the square, but I tell them I can't handle the crowds. People pressing in on all sides will make the whole nightmare that much more ghastly. So we sit in the living room, nails digging into our skin, teeth gritted together in anticipation, as the clock counts down.

Sixty seconds. The amount of time Peeta has to live without being hunted. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

"There's plenty of items scattered around the ground this year. Maybe he'll pick up something useful," my son says, without much enthusiasm. The reality of it all has finally set in. All these tributes circling each other will turn into murderers in forty seconds. Thirty-nine.

My son flashes onto the screen and everyone tenses. By now he'll have taken everything in, hopefully formed a plan to get some of the precious items and escape to the woods. But Peeta isn't looking at the Cornucopia. He's not even looking towards the woods. He's glancing down the line, his eyes searching for ... for Katniss.

"The fool," my wife mutters. "Doesn't know he can't save her, too? Unless -" She stops and I realize what she's implying.

"You think he's going to sacrifice himself for her? To protect her?" my other son says, the shock registering on his face.

"The bloody _fool."_

There's no point in pretending. I know that's what Peeta's plan is. The gong rings out and my son is thrown into hell.

The morning is splattered with blood. For the next few hours, the cameras switch between shots of the tributes who made it into the woods - including Katniss - and the battle raging at the Cornucopia. Already a dozen tributes are down. Peeta hardly collects anything before sprinting for the shelter of the trees. That's what you get for getting caught up in staring at your crush. In fact, the only thing he leaves the Cornucopia with is a knife. He makes good progress in the trees, though. The branches nick his face neck, leaving him with painful looking slices. Still, he's about as safe as you can get in an arena full of people trying to kill you.

I eat my words after another half hour when the Careers find him. He outruns them for a bit until his ankle catches on a dip and he stumbles. Trapped on the ground, the pack circles him like wolves. My wife lets out a little moan as she throws her hands up.

"Hey, Lover Boy," a small girl holding several knifes croons. "Thought you'd be with Katniss." She throws a knife that makes a nice deep gash in his arm.

"I - I was going to meet up with her," Peeta says. It's not his most convincing lie, but it comes out fast enough to be taken for truth.

"Well that's just too bad because I think the Games end for you right -"

"Wait!" Peeta holds up his free hand - the other is trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from the knife wound. "Maybe we can make a deal." He's talking quickly now. "I'll - I'll help you find Katniss if you let me join your pack. Look, I'm strong and I can hold my own with this knife. Besides, Katniss is the one who got the eleven in training. Isn't she the one you want?"

The angle switches to Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, the commentators for the Games.

"Claudius, this is a risky gamble," Caesar is saying. "Could he and Katniss possibly have arranged this? Or is Peeta Mellark showing his true colors - using his lover as leverage? I wonder what's going on his head?"

It's a very good question. Even I can usually guess what's running through Peeta's mind, him being so much like myself, but my mind is blank. Peeta's not a backstabber. And yet… it would be an excellent plan. To use Katniss to get sponsors, keep himself on the screens, and then join the Careers which would insure his survival at least for a little bit. Yes, it would be an excellent plan, but also a despicable one. And that's one thing Peeta isn't.

They cut to the arena again. Peeta's still on the ground, but the Careers have lowered their weapons slightly.

"Look, you don't know Katniss like I do. I'll be able to track her down and then we'll ambush her," Peeta is saying.

The girl from One raises an eyebrow. "Are you implying that we wouldn't be clever enough to find her on our own?"

"No, but it would be more efficient if you have someone who might have inside information on the girl you're tracking down."

"Do you know how she got that eleven in training?" one of the boys asks.

"Maybe," Peeta answers elusively. "I might have a guess or two. But I won't tell you unless we agree to be allies."

"Watch it, Twelve. If we let you join us, you have to abide by our rules and stick by your promise. At the first sign you might be doing something behind our back, we'll kill you," the girl with the knives growls. She puts a knife to his throat. "Swear it."

"I swear, I swear! I'll help you find Katniss! I'll hold up my end of the bargain."

The girl pulls her knife away and grabs the blonde boy by the arm. One of the beasts. "Come on, Cato. Lover Boy, you stick close. Wouldn't want you _wandering off."_

"What's he thinking?" my son asks, squinting at the screen as if to recognize his brother. "Teaming up with the Careers? Even if he does come home the district's not going to be happy with him. Sure, it'll keep him alive for a bit, but at what cost?"

My wife snorts. "Who gives a damn about what the district thinks? The boy finally had the sense to leave the girl and try to save himself."

But I'm not so sure those are his motives. Whatever the case, my son's far from safe. It's clear the Careers are waiting for the perfect excuse to strike him down. If he's still with them when the field is narrowed down, I'm sure killing him is the first move they'll make.

 _I hope you have a plan, Peeta,_ I think. _This could be a deadly move._


	10. Danger Lurking

**A/N -** You _might have noticed that I changed the rating. As this goes on, the violence will amp up. Just thought I'd let you know :)_

* * *

As it turns out, I'm right about Peeta's double motives. While he allies with the Careers very convincingly, it soon becomes clear he's leading them off her scent. Of course, there's no way for them to know this - they aren't seeing which way Katniss went moments before like we as viewers are - but when Peeta comes across a snare of hers, he stops to examine it, then leads them in the opposite direction. I don't know how long it will be before they realize he's giving them false information, but I'm certain that it won't end well for him when they do.

Despite his attempts to lead them off her tracks, Katniss seems to be pretty resourceful herself. That is, until it becomes obvious she is severely dehydrated. It's only a matter of days before she drops. The camera zooms in on her eyes, glassy and confused. She whispers hoarsely for water, but nothing drops from the sky. I wonder how Peeta will react when he sees her name in the sky. Will he stay with the Careers or break off the alliance now that he can't protect her anymore? She seems to be at death's door when she collapses in mud.

"Get up, silly girl," my wife says. "The water's right in front of your face." I turn to her sharply. I didn't think she cared that much about the Everdeen girl. I guess she is from Twelve and if Peeta doesn't win, we'll be pulling for her.

When she inches forward, through the mud, and treats a canteen of the newly discovered water, I feel everyone relax. She'll be alive for a little bit longer now that she's found this resource.

Then comes the fire. It's clearly Gamemaker material, but that doesn't make it any less deadly. In fact, it probably makes it more. The camera cuts to different shots of the tributes. A red-headed girl fleeing the flames on swift feet, a little girl flying from tree to tree, just ahead of the blaze, until she's forced to drop to the ground and continue on foot. The Careers and Peeta inhale a good deal of smoke and there's a lot of retching and coughing as they try to avoid the worst burns. Katniss gets a fireball to the leg. I wait for the Gamemakers to finish her off, or at least send another blow, but one doesn't come.

She stumbles to a pool, soaking her burns. The camera gets a good shot of the injury and I recoil. The skin is charred and angry. It'll disable her for awhile for sure.

"She's not going to sleep there is she?" my wife asks a bit later.

"That's what it looks like."

Katniss Everdeen has been dominating the screens for the past hour, the Capitol clearly on the edge of their seats to see what she'll do about the injury. She made herself dinner alright and now it looks as if she's settling down.

"Why doesn't she climb a tree? Stupid thing will get herself killed for sure!"

They just showed us a shot of the Career pack. They aren't exactly close, but they were heading in her direction. If they make good time through the night, they'll reach her by the time evening falls.

Sure enough, she barely has enough time to grab her pack and run before the Careers catch sight of her. The cameras linger on Peeta's face. The expression is that of complete shock. Katniss won't get very far trying to outrun them on that leg. Even though the Careers inhaled a lot of smoke, she's still outnumbered. They gather around the base of the tree she's climbing and whoop. Peeta is the only one not joining in. His eyes follow Katniss up the tree. I can almost see him willing her to climb faster, to ignore the pain that she's in. She calls down to them once she's twenty feet up.

"Poor guy looks like he's about to have a heart attack," his brother sighs.

He's right. As the rest of his "allies" take turns trying to reach Katniss, he stays quiet, his eyes locked on her branch. I can almost see the gears turning. Finally, he turns to them. "Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning." His voice is angry, as if he can't stand that their target is out of reach, but I'm guessing it runs deeper than that. He's probably angry with himself for letting the pack get so close to the girl.

"He's going to give himself away," I hear my wife murmur.

"No, they think he's angry that she's evading them," I explain. "Remember, they can't see what we do. They don't know he's been leading them away from her all this time."

Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are talking now.

"Well this is sure to keep viewers leaning in towards the screens," Claudius remarks. "Is this the end of The Girl on Fire? They've got her cornered. And let's take a closer look at the star-crossed-lover's silent exchange. She gets up in the tree and for a _millisecond_ glances down at Peeta Mellark. And look at that face. So shocked. He's been protecting her, risking his life for her, and now it might just go up in smoke."

"Quite literally," Caesar says. "If you noticed how badly the burn is plaguing her, that could contribute to her downfall."

I wonder if her mentor was paying close attention to this bit of commentary because very soon after, a parachute floats down to Katniss containing medicine for her injuries. It might also be the fact that she appeared to be in so much pain as she sawed a branch with something hanging down a few moments before. It's not until Caesar and Claudius identify it though that I connect the dots.

"Claudius, I think those are tracker jackers, am I wrong?"

Tracker jackers. The genetically engineered wasps created by the Capitol during the Dark Days. Back in the living room, my sons confirm my fears.

"She's going to drop it on their head. On Peeta's head!"

"But why? He protected her! Those will kill them for sure."

Why would she drop the nest on him? True, she is treed and if her only way to escape is to drop that nest, she might just risk his life - and then I put it together.

"She doesn't know. She thinks he's with the Careers. She's aiming to kill him. To kill all of them."

It's late - very late - but we can't bear to tear ourselves away from the screen. But nothing much seems to be happening. The cameras show tributes settling down for the night in odd places. A nest of bushes. Under a pile of leaves. Katniss is still high in her tree, sound asleep. The Careers and my son are beneath the tree, but Peeta's not sleeping. He's staring up at the high branches, as if determined to keep his eyes on the dark form that is Katniss the entire night.

"I don't think anything else will be happening. Better try and get some rest," my wife stands and stretches. "The real action will be tomorrow morning."

Before I leave, I take one long glance at my son. If Katniss manages to drop the nest on him… well the odds are certainly not in his favor.


	11. Veins of Venom

None of us slept a wink last night. Though we all pretend otherwise, the dark circles under our eyes are a dead giveaway. Somewhere, miles and miles away, there's a deadly nest hanging over my son's head and a girl waiting to drop it on him.

We barely bother with breakfast. Since both my older sons finished school, they now work in the bakery with me. On a normal day, we should be preparing today's goods, but it's still early enough to spend a little time watching the Games. So, we all end up gathered around the television set. The sun's just rising when we see Katniss climb towards the nest. She looks remarkably better - whatever was in that parachute did no favors to the Careers. In the daylight, the nest is definitely recognizable. The gray, papery surface of the nest hums with life. There's a moment's hesitation, and then she begins to work away at a groove she must have made the night before. The Careers and my son are completely oblivious to the danger above them.

As if in slow motion, the nest begins to fall. Katniss watches it, clinging to the tree. Already lumps are swelling up on her cheek and neck from stings she must have received already. The nest bursts open on the ground, and the insects swarm out in angry hoards. The air is rent with screams as the tributes on the ground try to orient themselves. Peeta and a few others drop everything and begin to run back the way they'd come yesterday.

"Good boy," my wife says. "Get the hell out of there." It's the first time I've heard her really praise him in a long time.

"The lake's that way," our oldest son says. His face is knitted with concern. He's probably remembering the time back when he was seven when he'd disrupted a wasp nest outside. Not tracker jackers, but he still came home covered in stings. These look about ten times worse.

The camera splits and on one side of the screen we see Katniss, stumbling about in the woods, and on the other my son and the Careers. Or what's left of them. Two girls didn't follow. I think it's safe to assume they won't make it.

Katniss finds her own little pool while elsewhere, my son trips into the lake. He splashes his face clumsily, trying to soak his stings that are now the size of plums.

"He better not go under," his brother says. "He looks like he might pass out. If the venom doesn't kill him, he'll drown."

The boy tribute from Two, Cato they've been calling him, is motioning back towards the woods.

Peeta holds up his hands. "My - my knife," he pants, blinking hard. "I left -"

"Take this spear -" Cato thrusts one of his weapons at my son. "I've got the sword."

Peeta shakes off the dizziness he must be feeling and stumbles back towards the tree with the others. I glance over to the other half of the screen and see that Katniss is leaning over the girl from One. At least, I think that's who it is. Her blonde hair is the only thing recognizable. The rest of her is bloated and distorted from the stings.

"She wants the bow," I murmur. "If she gets that weapon, she'll be unstoppable."

"How would you know?" my wife asks sharply. Right. She doesn't know I buy the squirrels from her.

"That's just what I've heard." I turn my attention back to the screen.

"Well, it looks like she's got them."

Katniss, though tipsily swaying back and forth, is now on her feet. She shoulders the weapons just as Peeta crashes through the underbrush.

My son swears loudly. "She's going to shoot him."

But Katniss seems to be struggling, unable to string the bow. Peeta looks at her, shocked.

"What are you still doing here?" he hisses. He uses the spear to move her to her feet. "Get up! Get up!" he keeps saying.

Behind them, I hear feet and know that Cato is only seconds away. They'll both be dead now.

"Run!" Peeta shouts and shoves the teetering Katniss away from him. "Run!"

Cato arrives now. It takes only a moment for him to understand what's happened. That Peeta's betrayed them. If he weren't stung, both of the Twelve tributes would have been killed by now. It's the venom that's slowing his brain down. Still, his sword is drawn, and it pauses in the air for only half a second.

Somehow, Peeta's advice reached Katniss. She crashes through the trees. We can still see her progress on the right side of the screen, but all of my attention is on Cato and Peeta.

The sword whistles through the air, cutting right through my son's leg. He gives out such a cry of pain that my heart twists. His hand goes to the wound and comes away dripping in blood. Cato lifts the sword again, but Peeta blocks it with his spear shaft. It splinters, sending pieces flying into the woods. Now weaponless, with veins full of venom, Peeta's only defense is his strength. He tackles Cato and the two wrestle on the ground. Cato's still slashing with the sword, and although his slices are haphazard, Peeta's still on the end of quite a few.

Then Cato rolls over and crawls a little ways away to the tree line. His body begins to convulse as the venom finally overcomes him. He retches, his back turned to Peeta.

My son doesn't seem to be capable of walking, but somehow, sensing this might be the only time to break away, he uses a tree to haul himself to his feet. He stuffs a bit of his jacket into his mouth to keep himself from crying out, then hobbles off.

Cato doesn't seem to notice or he doesn't care. He's shaking now, his muscles twitching. Then he rights himself and staggers off back in the direction of the camp. The opposite direction of Peeta, thank heaven.

My son's barely gone a hundred meters when he sinks to the ground. Judging by his pallor, he'll blackout soon. Still, he doggedly inches forward on all fours until his comes to a patch of underbrush. Just ahead of him is a river.

Unable to go further, both from the pain in his leg and the venom, he slumps to the ground.


	12. Deathbed

Through the next few days, I keep waiting for the Gamemakers to send something in to wake those tributes who are still passed out from the nightmares. Sure, they scream and writhe, trapped in some horrid place inside their minds, but the real sport of the Games is watching them fight.

But nothing comes. The stung tributes are left in the same places they passed out in. Katniss somewhere in the woods, my son by the river, and the Careers at their camp. I suppose there are enough tributes who didn't get stung to keep things interesting. There's a few fights. No deaths. Maybe the Capitol's invested in these other tributes who now get the spotlight, but all I care about is the blonde boy who's prisoner in his own brain.

Sometimes he screams and thrashes around, and sometimes he just whimpers. The muscles in his jaw work overtime, and I know he's grinding his teeth. One thing's for sure, whatever was in that venom will surely drive him to madness if he doesn't wake soon.

The only other tribute who I make sure to keep up on is Katniss. Maybe it's because she's from Twelve or maybe I just want to know what she'll do once she realizes Peeta's injured. Caesar and Claudius have been having a field day discussing the incident between Cato, Katniss, and Peeta. The star-crossed lovers putting themselves in danger to help the other and a lot of other cliches that must be opening the floodgates in the Capitol.

Katniss is the first to surface from the state. She's in a ditch, lying in the fetal position. When the venom finally relinquishes its grip on her, she's rightly confused. It takes awhile for her to get her limbs working and even then, she's slow and foggy. Still, she manages a couple kills and she's just sitting down to cook them when the little girl appears. I think she's from Eleven and she can't be more than twelve.

I'm relieved when Katniss doesn't shoot her. Such a little thing shouldn't even be in the Games. But not only does Katniss spare her life, she offers to team up. I smile a little as I start to understand who she is. Peeta's seen this in her from the beginning. A protective, almost caring part of Katniss Everdeen that's begun to show. Like when she volunteered for her sister and now allying with this young tribute.

About the time that they go to sleep in the tree is the time I stop paying attention to her for the moment. Because, in one third of the screen, I see Peeta's woken up. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat so that it practically shines in the pale light from the moon. As he sits up, he gives out a little cry of pain. The cameras find his leg. You can't see it well because his pant leg is covering it, but there's enough blood soaking through the fabric to guess how serious it is.

A quick shot of the Career's camp show us that they're still out from the stings, but for how much longer? If his wound doesn't kill him first, certainly the first thing they'll do is hunt him down.

Peeta makes a move to stand, but it must be too painful because he sinks back to the ground. His face is fighting to remain calm. He wets his cracked lips and begins to inch towards the river, leaning down to gulp some down. He splashes some on his face.

"His hands are shaking," his brother notices. "They never shake."

Looking around, Peeta seems to decide it's safe to stay by the river for awhile because he curls up on the mud bank. There are enough weeds to conceal him when the sun rises and having a water source so close is very valuable. The mud must be warm because he coats his arms in it as the night goes on.

When the sun rises in the arena, Katniss and the Eleven tribute - Rue, the announcers call her - have already eaten breakfast. There's already been a death this morning. The boy from Ten was attacked by the Careers, who must have woken up through the night. The two girls set off into the woods now, discussing a plan to eliminate the Career's food storage.

Peeta's eyes are still closed, but he seems to be in some restless state between awake and asleep. When they finally do pop open, I can see him struggling to remember the previous days events. He crawls to the river's edges and sips some water. Food would be the next step, but he doesn't have any and looks too weak to go find some. He's been eating off the Career's pyramid, where they're storing all the spoils from the Cornucopia, and hasn't had to worry about _finding_ food in the arena. Plus, in the daylight, I'm able to see just how pale he is. The sword wound has cost him a lot of blood.

So, with nothing to eat, he lays back down among the mud and weeds. His eyes stare off into the river, watching it's endless flow. When he dozes off again, my wife breaks the silence. She orders our oldest son to check on the loaves I put in the oven this morning and switch out with his brother. We've all been taking turns working the counter because no one wants to leave for fear that when they come back, Peeta will be dead.

As my youngest son sleeps fitfully, Katniss has finalized her plan with Rue. They've built a few big bonfires and now she's headed off in the direction of the Career's camp.

"Is he muttering her name?" my wife scoffs.

"Huh?" I turn my attention back to Peeta. He's still asleep, but yes, he's moaning something.

" _Katniss. Katniss, no."_

"More venom?" I ask.

"No, he's just sleeping, I think. He's not thrashing or anything."

I watch his face for awhile. Compared to the healthy, glowing boy we saw the night of the interviews, this Peeta looks pale and sickly.

The other side of the screen explodes and we both start. My son, who walks in just in time to catch it, lets out a little gasp.

"What the -"

Katniss Everdeen has blown up the Career's entire stockpile of food, weapons, and goods. And she's still alive. Well, for the moment. She seems to be having trouble crawling away. Blood trickles down the side of her face and I think it's coming from her ear. Just as she makes it to crop of bushes at the tree line when the furious Careers return. Cato seems particularly upset. His rage ends in the death of a boy tribute who was acting as their guard. I don't remember his district, maybe Three? Eight?

Katniss doesn't move from her bushes. Her little ally was forced to scale a tree after the redheaded girl from Five came too near. I don't think the third bonfire was ever lit. Her District partner, the big muscular boy, settles down for the night in the field across from the Cornucopia. And, still trapped on the bank of the river (probably the viewers are getting bored of seeing him there) is my son.

He wakes up as the anthem starts playing. He's been lying down almost the entire day, sometimes dozing off, sometimes staring out at nothing. His lethargy concerns me - he's had no food and minimal water. At one point he began muttering something under his breath that the cameras couldn't pick up. He might have been delirious.

As I fall asleep myself, I can't help thinking that that mud bank might be his final resting place. If he doesn't find the strength to find food in the very near future, Katniss Everdeen will be the only tribute left in the Games from District Twelve.


	13. Doubt

The little girl dies so suddenly.

One second, Katniss is lounging about in the trees, the Careers storming the woods to gather food for the first time in the Games. Rue didn't light the third fire because the redheaded girl from Five was much too near. She scaled a tree and waiting until the other girl moved on. She must have been eager to get back to Katniss because she didn't see the trigger point, the net that would entangle her.

The spear pierces Rue just as Katniss reaches her. The boy from One, Marvel, dies shortly thereafter at the point of her arrow. As the little tribute dies, Katniss holds her in her lap, singing until the final breath. I feel a hard lump form in my throat as I watch the life drain from Rue. Then, the camera switches suddenly. I start, wondering why they'd choose to block the view of this emotional death? They usually show the whole thing, focusing on the corpse and the killer. It's only when the camera returns for the briefest of moments that we see little Rue's been decorated in flowers. Only one person would have done that. Katniss turns to Rue and presses three fingers of her left hand to her lips, then holds them out to the dead girl.

It's our symbol - the one we gave her here in Twelve. I don't think I've ever seen a tribute salute another like this in all the years I've been watching the Games.

Throughout this whole poignet goodbye, Peeta's been oblivious. He's hasn't moved - his leg must be hurting him too badly to even go farther up the bank. Now, he's in the process of camouflaging himself. This can only mean he's prepared to stay here until death. Using mud and weeds, he becomes almost invisible. It's a slow process - at even the littlest movements, he gives out soft moans. Sweat trickles down the side of his face as if it's costing him a great deal of effort. When he finally finishes, I can no longer tell he's there. Even though I know he's safer where he can't be seen, I hate it. I can't see his face - I have no idea how he's faring. From the way he looked earlier today, he's not well. He'll die and I might not even know until the cannon goes off.

Another thing troubles me as I stare at the mud concealing my son. Katniss has received a parachute already from their mentor. Sure, her burn was serious. And she might not have gotten away from the Careers without it. But Peeta is _dying._ He hasn't had food in ages and he hasn't been able to hold down much water. Every time he tries to drink, it comes back up. Surely this is worth something from a sponsor, isn't it? Katniss did get the eleven in training, but Peeta had a very memorable interview. I begin to resent their drunken mentor, Haymitch. He's clearly rated Katniss over my son and now, as the boy's life is seeping away one excruciating moment at a time, he gets nothing. No silver parachute to save him or put him out of his misery.

The field is down to eight - well, it was until a few minutes ago. Early this morning, they came to do personal pieces on the Twelve tributes. When the reporters showed up at the door with their bright, colored clothes and freakish hairdos, we had no choice but to answer their questions. They asked them so nonchalantly as we struggled to remember every moment that had to do with our son. The same son who was dying in a mudbank for their entertainment. It was sickening.

They asked me about Peeta's hobbies. I told them about his frosting work. About his skills in the bakery. They ate it up, telling me that if he won, to send some goods to the Capitol. They'd be all the rage.

They asked me about his disposition at home and asked me to show them his room. I was forced to tell them about his sweet, honest personality. I left out any mention of my wife's abuse. I can only handle so much.

Talking about Peeta made everything so much harder because it really brought to light how much I miss him. His smile, his laugh. The house seems so much emptier now. I wonder if he truly knows how much he brightened my life. Because right now, I doubt I'll ever get to tell him.


	14. A Kiss

After the initial shock of the reaping, the numbness of losing a child, and the agony of watching the opening days of the Games, you'd think that I'd felt all there is to feel. However, a new feeling drapes itself about the house, slinking into the corners, resting on our chests. I wouldn't call it _depression,_ but it's something similar. An emptiness. Because we have to move on. Peeta's death is imminent. He hasn't moved from the muddy riverside and I doubt he ever will. I hate to say that we've written him off, but there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of hope. The family is steeling themselves for the worst. I know that there will be nothing like hearing the cannon that announces his final breath. Nothing can prepare me for watching his body lifted into the air, but it seems foolish to hope for a reprieve now.

Which is why it comes as such a shock when the trumpets blare and Claudius Templesmith congratulates the six remaining tributes.

"Six," I breathe. "Only six left."

"Soon to be five the way Peeta's headed," my wife says with a wave of her hand. I wonder if the dismissing of his life really hides her sorrow. It usually does.

Back in the arena, Claudius announces a rule change.

"What the hell does he mean by that?" my wife asks, mystified. "What rules are there to change?"

She has a point. The Games don't really have a rulebook per se. But Claudius says there is one. And he's changing it. Two tributes can win if they're from the same district.

"Two tributes…" I mutter. "From the same -" It dawns on me. Katniss. She's now my son's ally. For a moment, I'm elated. Surely the daughter of a healer could prolong Peeta's life, fix him up. He has someone in the arena who's not trying to kill him. But then I remember that Katniss hasn't really moved from her spot either. She's distraught at the loss of Rue, and seems to be having trouble doing the simplest of tasks - as if the motivation has drained out of her.

But she sat up when the trumpets sounded and now she frowns a little as Claudius finishes. Something ignites again in her eyes as she too realizes what this new rule change means. There's a pause and then... she calls out Peeta's name.

Even in the darkness, I can see the panic in her eyes as she covers her mouth with her hand. It was a dangerous move, to reveal her position. But then again, there aren't very many tributes left to hear her. The screen is split into two and I focus on the right side, where Katniss is processing everything before smiling up at the camera.

"Now look at that smile!" Caesar Flickerman gasps. "That's the smile of a desperate girl who has a chance to save her lover. No doubt she's thrilled. But Claudius, do you think she knows how injured he is? I mean, the boy hasn't moved in days. Oh, the agony for these star-crossed lovers. They never get a break, do they?" He sounds genuinely sorry for them, which I might believe if the Capitol wasn't the reason my son and the Everdeen girl were facing death in the first place.

"Why isn't she going to find him?" my wife asks, frustration edging into her voice. "It looks like she's settling down for sleep."

"Maybe she plans to look for him in the light," my son suggests. "I bet she'll set off in the morning."

"By morning, there might not be a Peeta to look for! The boy's barely alive as it is!"

"Perhaps," I say slowly. "She doesn't know how badly he's injured. I mean, she was under the venom the last time she saw him. Maybe she thinks she's got time."

"Well, she doesn't," my wife huffs.

I try to tune her out because she's voicing the very fears that have arisen in my own head. So, I turn my attention to the other side of the screen. It's the only other pair of district partners - the ones from Two. They're grinning at each other and Cato puts his arm around the dark haired girl. "See, what did I tell you?" he says in a surprisingly soft voice for such a brutal guy. "We'll finish this together."

I realize now that this rule change could only be the result of the Capitol citizens growing attachment to the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve. Peeta's been whispering her name throughout the past few days and while Katniss has been a little more preoccupied, she's left the audience with a few memorable moments. After all, the only other tributes benefiting from this are the Two tributes. It seems like a lot of fuss just for a few of the tributes to be affected. But, I have to admit, the other pair is a threat. The girl's got a nasty edge with those knives and the boy is… unyielding. But maybe, just maybe, Katniss and Peeta can find a way to win. To come home. That is, if my son doesn't let the wound and lack of food take him first.

But as it turns out, Peeta is still alive when the sun rises. Just as our older son predicted, Katniss sets off early - no doubt to search for him. There's no way for her to know where to look for him, but she seems determined nonetheless. I'm surprised when she makes a beeline for the stream. Lucky guess or did she know all along?

The terrain turns rocky and I know she's almost reached his hiding spot. I haven't seen his face, but I assume Peeta's keeping an eye out for her. But she seems to be less certain now, wavering. I'm worried she might turn around until she finds a bloodstain on the rocks. Peeta had dragged himself over them after being cut by Cato that night. Before he collapsed into the two-day long nightmare. He didn't do a very good job wiping it away, but I can hardly blame him.

She begins to call his name in a hushed, urgent whisper. She's very, very close now. If he weren't camouflage, she'd see him. And he must see her, right?

 _No, don't turn around,_ I think. _Peeta, say something!_

"You here to finish me off, sweetheart?"

It's as if he could hear my thoughts. I breathe a sigh of relief. I still can't see him, but it was most certainly his voice. Katniss has heard it, too. She stops, looks around and beings to edge back towards the mud.

"Peeta?" she calls. "Where are you?"

He doesn't answer, which worries me. Has he died? But no, a moment later his voice comes again.

"Well, don't step on me."

There's just the faintest bit of his old humor. And then his eyes are open and he's smiling, revealing himself for the first time in what feels like ages. She asks him to close his eyes again. I guess the camouflage is pretty impressive.

Katniss kneels beside him. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off."

This little reminder of his past, of the talent that used to consume his day, brings another smile to my son's lips. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying."

I'm drawn back into the living room as my son chuckles, elbowing his brother. "Didn't you say something like that?"

"Sounds better coming from his mouth."

But that little word - "dying" - and Katniss stops smiling. "You're not going to die."

"Says who?" without the humor, he can't mask how worn his voice is. How shallow his breathing has become.

Something like fear registers for a brief moment in Katniss's eyes, but she quickly covers it. "Says me. We're on the same team now, you know."

"So I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me."

Katniss doesn't answer. She just carefully grabs her water bottle and gently lets him drink. "Did Cato cut you?"

"Left leg. Up high." The water does little to help the deteriorated state of his voice.

At once, it's clear that Katniss Everdeen is the daughter of her mother. She props Peeta up against a boulder and treats his minor wounds and burns. Her hands are deft, as if they've been watching someone do the same for years - which I know she has. She washes his clothes in the river and applies some of her burn cream from the parachute and the leaves that little Rue showed her.

It's then that she pauses, feeling his forehead. She paws through the first aid kit she's carrying and digs out tiny little pills. I recognize them as fever reducing medicine. We can get them here in Twelve, but they're quite pricey. I think we might have a small supply in the washroom cupboard.

But Peeta resists the pills, water and food.

"It's funny, I haven't been hungry in days," he says.

The tension that eased when Katniss came into the picture billows up again. Peeta must be very sick. I don't know what she'll do because the odds in the arena of getting over an illness are very low.

But she perseveres until he's eaten a few bits of dried fruit. Peeta wants to sleep, but she won't let him drift off until she's taken care of his leg.

It's the first time the cameras get a shot of his wound without his pants covering it. And it's awful. The cut oozes with pus and it's very deep. The skin around it is swollen and purple.

It's clear Katniss wasn't prepared for this. Her gag reflexes seem to be working, but maintains a steady disposition as she rinses it and tries to experiment with different remedies. After pus begins to run down his leg, she gives up trying to stay cool. She starts laughing and admits to being squeamish when it comes to wounds. But, after a few false starts, she has it wrapped up in bandages and Peeta propped up on her shoulder. She wants to climb a tree, but settles for a little cave.

Despite the bandages, little bit of food and drink, and clean clothes, Peeta seems to be getting worse. He shivers now, huddled on the floor of the cave. He calls out to her and she comes over, brushing the hair from his forehead. He's trying to tell her something about him not making it but she cuts him off. With a kiss. I swear the commentators nearly swoon.

In normal circumstances, this would a moment of triumph for my son. Kissing Katniss at last. But even though he's better off than he was a couple hours ago, he seems to still be sliding down that slippery slope to death.


	15. Their Only Hope

I haven't forgotten the promise I made to Katniss - that I'd take care of her little sister and mother. Nearly every day, I leave a bundle of bread on their doorstep. It has to be delivered early - before my wife gets up - because she'd never authorize this, but it's a sacrifice I'm well willing to make for that family. I could give it to them personally, but confrontation isn't my thing. Besides, I don't know how they'll take this charity. For some people, it's easier to accept a handout or gift in the privacy of their own home. But I've seen little Primrose open the door and take in the bread every morning, so I know they're eating. Even though I've barely had an exchange with the Everdeens, my heart and thoughts are with them constantly. Because they know what we're going through here. There's nothing like watching your children die for sport.

The romance in the arena brings a new feeling to the Games. It makes them seem more sadistic, if possible. Because they're letting these children have hope. The Capitol is permitting them to believe they have a friend in the lonely arena, when in reality, there's probably a plan to make their ending as tragic as possible. Because it would be the final word in entertainment if these two lovers died for each other.

Katniss stays up all night with Peeta, changing the cool cloth she's put over her forehead. She runs her fingers through his hair and sometimes just lays beside him, her face solemn in the gray light of the cave. There's a brief moment of relief when Peeta wakes up. He looks much better than he did yesterday. He's still very pale, but his voice has gained a bit of strength. But it seeps away as the morning goes on. Peeta still has to lean against the wall to hold himself up and refuses the meat that Katniss offers.

They've given the audience a fairly interesting show, but there's no way the Gamemakers will let it be this _peaceful_ for much longer. If I had to guess, I'd say the Capitol is waiting to see if Peeta will die of natural causes before they send in anything too drastic. It'll be worse for Katniss if she couldn't save him than if the Gamemakers murder him. If Peeta does die here in this cave, the camera's are sure to milk her grief for all it's worth.

Now, at Peeta's insisting, she lies down on the sleeping bag and drifts off. After a night of being in her care, Peeta clearly intends to return to favor. He strokes her hair, watching her with a very tender expression on his face. At one point, he leans down as if to kiss her, then pulls away, his face flushing. His crush of practically twelve years lies asleep beside him and there's been romance budding between them. Yet, he's still too shy to kiss her. Maybe he feels that would be taking advantage of her, kissing her when she isn't awake. I have to smile a little because I'd feel the same way.

As the day goes on, I can't help but notice how much strain lies behind his gentle expression. My son is still very sick. Suddenly, I wish Katniss would wake up to tend to him. It makes me feel better when he has someone looking after him. It's not much longer before Katniss comes to. She immediately tests his cheeks, brushing her hand against his skin. It must be hot because she gives him a few more pills and demands that he drink two quarts of water. I think the fever is the only thing still paining him, but then she unwraps his leg.

I let out an audible gasp. If the wound was bad yesterday, today it's nauseating. The skin is inflamed, the wound ragged. Bits of ripped, mutilated flesh edge the crater in his leg. But the most alarming thing is the red little streaks now apparent on his skin.

Caesar confirms what I fear.

"That boy's got blood poisoning, no doubt about it. And there's nothing Dr. Everdeen can do about that. These two lovers look like they're in for a tragic ending after all."

Even though Peeta doesn't have the commentators to affirm the diagnosis, the look on his face tells me he already knows.

"Well," Katniss begins with a poor attempt at keeping her voice steady and bright. "There's more swelling, but the pus is gone."

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss. Even if my mother isn't a healer."

They both look at each other for a moment before Katniss drops her gaze. "You're just going to have to outlast the others," she says matter-of-factly.

It's not much of a plan. The remaining tributes better die off fast because Peeta can't survive for much longer. Just as Caesar Flickerman said, there's nothing else Katniss can do for him. Herbal remedies will be useless against something as potent as blood poisoning. The only thing she can do is keep him filled with fluids and food. And that's what she intends to do, possibly hoping that sponsors will be able to get them some medicine. She puts some stones in the broth pot that Haymitch Abernathy sent them last night. According to the commentators, she's using the heat of the day to try and warm up the water. Probably so she won't have to light a fire. Katniss also sets up a few snares. As we watch her work, I'm so glad that Peeta has her as an ally. She can hunt, she's resourceful, and can at least keep him alive for a little bit longer than, say, I could.

The cameras take a moment to update us on the other tributes, but the demand evidently lies with the Twelve tributes in the Capitol. Their presence on the screens have far outweighed any other tributes - even before the rule change was announced. I think this may be the first time in years that Twelve is the focus of the Games - it's usually one of the Careers. This thought gives me a little bit of confidence in them. If the Capitol is truly that invested in the Twelve tributes, they might receive a few lifesaving spoils via parachute. Namely medicine for Peeta.

Katniss and Peeta keep charge of the screens. She's telling him a story about her sister and a goat. Peeta's clearly worsening, the sweat trickling down the side of his face, the flushed red color is deepening. But he listens attentively, keeping his eyes fixed on her face as she recalls her happiest memory.

The moment is broken by the trumpets. Trumpets! I sit up straight. The last time they blew, it signified a change in my son's fortunes.

"Probably a feast," my wife says.

She's right. Claudius Templesmith is inviting the tributes to a feast at the Cornucopia. But there's a twist. Apparently, each tribute needs something. I run through a quick tally of the tributes. Katniss and Peeta obviously need medicine to keep the latter alive. That redhead from Five is running low on food. Could that be what she needs? The two tributes from Two seem to be splitting time hunting and training to fight. They practice moves on each other. I believe they're training for the final battle. As Career's, they probably think their odds are pretty high. I wonder they want so desperately that the Gamemakers decided to use it as bait. That big, powerful boy from Eleven hasn't had much screen time at all recently. He's usually stays hidden and no one has stepped up to challenge him, so there's not much to show. Just the occasional shot to inform us he's alive. What could he possibly have for the Gamemakers to draw _him_ in?

Claudius explains that at dawn, each tribute will find a backpack marked with their district number that contains their greatest need at the Cornucopia. He ends it with a final, ominous statement.

"Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."

"The Everdeen girl's going to go. That medicine will be Peeta's final hope." My wife's still fixated on the screen, as if waiting for the trumpets to sound out again.

I know she's right. Katniss will want to save Peeta, even if it means risking her own life. But what I also know is that Peeta won't let her. And, yes, he's grabbing her shoulder, begging her not to risk her life for him. Katniss tries to play it cool by promising not to go, but he sees right through her.

"All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!"

But Peeta promises to follow her, dragging himself along, howling her name.

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I hear a note of despair somewhere in the depths of her comment.

"I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go."

The two of them sit, staring at each other. They know and I know that if Katniss doesn't get the medicine, Peeta isn't likely to live much longer. I find myself willing Katniss to fight back, to go anyway. My son needs that medicine. But she concedes to stay. Even though she makes him promise to do everything she says, it's pointless. And so is Peeta's promise to stay alive. Claudius Templesmith was right about one thing. That medicine is their last hope. Their _only_ hope.


	16. The Calm Before the Storm

**A/N-** I'm _just going to state it again. I do use direct quotes from the book in these chapters. The quotes don't belong to me, I'm just trying to stay true to the books._

* * *

"Oh, sure, drug the boy who's already half dead." My wife throws her hands up in frustration as Katniss wipes a bit of berry from Peeta's chin. He's completely out.

Shortly after the announcement of the feast, Katniss was sent another parachute. But this one held sleep syrup. She was very clever, the way she disguised it's characteristically sweet taste in berries before feeding it to Peeta. By the time he realized what it really was, the medicine had already begun to take effect. It makes me nervous to have my son so vulnerable when he's already ill, but what other choice does Katniss have? That medicine is the only thing going for them.

The next morning brings the feast and the feast means death. Whether we like it or not, at least one tribute will die today. And if Katniss is the one to draw her final breath at the feast, Peeta will follow shortly behind.

As the sun rises, a table comes up from the ground in front of the Cornucopia. The camera shows us shots of each tribute, crouching the bushes, lying in the tall grass, and in one case, inside the golden horn itself. As promised, the marked backpacks are on the table, waiting for the tributes to make their moves.

The first one to take their chances is the tribute from Five. The one hiding inside the Cornucopia. She grabs her pack and flees - fast, smart, and swift. That breaks the ice. Katniss follows behind, sprinting for the table. The girl from Two comes around the horn and launches a knife. Fortunately, Katniss deflects it, but her retaliation only lodges itself in the girl's arm - not a fatal blow. She reaches the table and snatches up the small backpack marked with a twelve, but as she turns, another knife takes a slice of her forehead. Disoriented, she's unable to get a clear shot at the girl from Two and the arrow goes wide.

Now the other girl reaches her and they wrestle on the ground. This is just what the Gamemakers want to see. A feast, a trap, baited with necessities. I guess they figure things have been moving too slowly - haven't I been saying that all along?

And now comes the showy death of Katniss Everdeen. Because Clove - I think that's her name - has pinned our tribute down now. She holds a knife threateningly near the face of her prey, but delays the death slash.

"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve?" she taunts. "Still hanging on?"

There's only one thing for Katniss to do. Lie. Keep the girl talking. "He's out there now. Hunting Cato."

She screams Peeta's name, but that only gets Clove's fist in her windpipe. Great. Maybe suffocation will be less painful than stabbing. The story doesn't hold the Two tribute for very long.

"Liar. He's nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try and keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it."

Now she'll kill her. The chat is over.

Clove goes on about Cato and promising to give the audience a show, but I'm not really listening. I can't help but think of Peeta and what he'll do when he sees Katniss in the sky tonight. If he ever wakes up. She used the entire bottle of that syrup - maybe the infection will take him before he sleeps it off. A little part of me hopes that'll happen. That Peeta will die in his sleep - without anymore pain and certainly without experiencing the agony that will come when he finds out about her death. Maybe he'll see Katniss on the other side - wherever that is - and they'll have a happy little reunion away from the danger. Away from the Games. Death will insure them something they never had here in life - safety.

Clove has the knife on Katniss' lips now. A tiny drop of scarlet blood blooms where the point digs into her flesh. Then, the knife falls and Clove is swung into the air. The camera tilts upwards to reveal her trapped in the boy from Eleven's arms. Next to the two girls, he looks even more mammoth than he did by himself. His muscles ripple and there's no hope of escape for the girl from Two. When she's flung to the ground, she makes a panicked attempt at escape, crawling backward, but it's futile.

"What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?" he bellows.

It takes me a moment to realize he's talking about Rue. Did Clove make some sort of comment about the little Eleven tribute? Probably while she was taunting Katniss and I was tuned out thinking about my son. Clove didn't kill Rue, but how's this towering boy to know that? He must feel obligated to avenge her - he was her district partner.

"You said her name. I heard you," he shouts when Clove protests. "You kill her? You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?" His features are contorted with pain and rage.

When he picks up the massive rock, she goes mad with panic. She begins to scream. I think she's calling to the boy from her district. I wait for him to come barreling out of the trees, but no one shows.

And then the rock comes down on her temple. I grimace as the camera shows the dent in her skull. But I have other things to worry about because now that Clove is surely on her final breaths, Katniss is the next target. So maybe she didn't die at the hands of the Two tribute, but it hardly matters. Peeta won't see who killed her - just that she died. I go back to wishing for his slipping away in sleep.

"What'd she mean? About Rue being your ally?" The boy stares at Katniss, the rock still raised.

"I - I -" Katniss stutters. "We teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first. District One."

The Eleven tribute doesn't seem to care that the girl he killed wasn't Rue's actual assailant. Another obstacle down, I suppose. "And you killed him?" he asks Katniss.

"Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers. And I sang her to sleep." Katniss' voice drops and she sounds close to tears.

"To sleep?"

"To death," Katniss corrects herself. "I sang until she died. Your district… they sent me bread." She draws a shaky breath and wipes her nose. Just like a small, scared child. "Do it fast, okay, Thresh?" That must be his name.

I can't watch this happen, so I turn my head away. My wife scoffs at my weakness, but I just can't bring myself to watch that rock come down on her skull. Sucking in my breath, I wait for the sound of impact. The sound that signals her death. But it doesn't come.

And now my wife is shaking me, forcing me towards the screen. Thresh has lowered the rock and is pointing a finger at Katniss. "Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?"

Without fully understanding what's happening, I see Katniss nod. In the background I hear a boy calling Clove's name. Thresh tells her to run and Katniss doesn't hesitate to follow his advice. She stumbles back through the trees, blood pouring from her wound. On the other side of the screen, we see Cato kneeling beside the battered Clove. He has tears running down his face and even after the canon blows, I hear him pleading.

"Please Clove, please hang on," he sobs. "I'll think of something. Please! Stay with me, Clove. Help! Please send something to help her!" He's begging the sponsors now, but it's much too late. The Gamemakers will want him to clear out now so they can collect the body, but he just crumbles, throwing his body on hers as if to protect it.

I switch my attention back to Katniss because seeing this usually tough boy so overcome by grief just reminds me of Peeta's probable reaction should _his_ ally die. She's wading through the river now, trying to staunch the blood flowing thick and fast down the side of her cheek. She's pressed a sock up against the wound, but the fabric is quickly stained crimson.

After much groping around, she finds the cave and crawls inside. Peeta is still under the drugs, so she rips to pack that she's miraculously still holding onto open and dumps out the contents. And yes, it's medicine. She plunges the syringe into his arm and barely has time to focus on her wound before she blacks out.

For the rest of the morning, the cameras show us shots of grief-stricken, yet furious Cato, powerful Thresh, and that swift-footed girl from Five. The star-crossed lovers are still passed out next to each other. Things seem pretty still as everyone tries to recover from the morning's traumas. The Gamemakers send in rain, spiced up by the occasional rumble of thunder.

And that's when I understand. The feast was just an opening act. As the field narrows down, the final, bloody battle for victory is drawing nearer and nearer. The calm before the storm starts now.


	17. Cave Comfort

As afternoon fades to evening, Peeta stirs on the floor of the cave. He prys his eyes open, stretches his stiff muscle and blinks, seeming very confused. He notices the syringe and I can visibly see him remember everything that happened. His eyes widening, he looks around for Katniss. And there she is. Out cold, lying in a pool of blood. Against the dark liquid, her face shines white.

A look of horror replaces that of bewilderment as Peeta searches her body for the source of the blood. When he notices the cut from Clove's knife, he gingerly rolls her over to face him and begins to dab at the wound with his shirt. Pressing the fabric firmly to her head, he looks around - a bit lost. Then, he notices the first aid kit that Katniss left beside him as she set out for the feast.

Peeta opens it as quickly as he can with one hand and takes out a roll of bandages. Cradling Katniss' head in his lap, he rinses the cut with plenty of water, then begins to wrap the sterile cotton tightly around her head. Afterwards, he lays her back down next to him and gently rubs her shoulder, the panic subsiding a little now that the wound is cleaned and covered. He takes a sip of water, which is a marked improvement from Katniss force-feeding it to him and I now notice that. his color is remarkably improved since the last time he was conscious. Whatever was in the medicine worked. He'll be okay for now.

The blood has begun to seep through Katniss' bandages a little and I know the bleeding hasn't stopped. She's lost a good deal of blood. Not enough to be fatal, but it could definitely weaken her for awhile. Luckily, Peeta's not going anywhere either. He sits next to her, occasionally changing the bandages, rubbing her shoulders soothingly He drinks lots of water and, to the relief of all of us watching, eats a good bit of the meat before he restrains himself.

As night falls, the sky shows Clove. Peeta watches wordlessly, maybe thinking about his partial ally who's now gone forever. As the temperature drops, he tucks the sleeping bag around Katniss. It must be cold in the cave because he huddles up against the wall, returning the favor as the night guard.

The rain doesn't stop through the night. Being asleep for so long under the syrup has done Peeta a favor because he doesn't doze off once. He stays beside Katniss, loyally watching over her just as she did for him. At one point, after checking on the wound and finding it still to be bleeding, he shakes his head and whispers, "Why? Why'd you do this, Katniss?"

My wife goes to bed around midnight along with the other boys, but I choose to stay in front of the screen for as long as the electricity will hold. And for once, the screen stays on the whole night. The first rays of light are slinking into the cave when Peeta leans down and his lips brush Katniss' cheek. My eyes are heavy, but I'm glad I stayed. Seeing Peeta be so careful and tender with this wounded girl brings back memories of his personality and it warms me.

It's late that morning when Katniss finally stirs and moans a little. Peeta's who's stroking her cheek, moves in closer at these hopeful signs of revival.

"Katniss," he murmurs. "Katniss, can you hear me?"

Her grey eyes flash open, scared and wide. They flick back and forth, as if she doesn't recognize where she is. Then, they focus on my son. "Peeta," she sighs, relief flooding her face.

"Hey," he says tenderly. "Good to see your eyes again."

"How long have I been out?"

"Not sure," Peeta brushes a bit of hair away from her neck. "I woke up yesterday and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood." He checks the bandages. The blood stains have darkened slightly. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything."

She raises an arm to her hand and probes the bandages. The little color her face had drains as her hand falls limply at her side. Katniss closes her eyes and swallows hard.

Seeing this, Peeta reaches for a water bottle and lifts it to her lips, coaxing them around the mouth. After being out for so long, Katniss must be parched. She gulps down half the bottle before drawing a breath.

"You're better," she notes, staring up at my son.

"Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone."

She considers this for a moment, then asks another question. "Did you eat?"

He smiles a little. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realize it might have to last awhile. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet."

"No, it's good." Katniss voices what I'm thinking. "You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon."

"Not too soon, alright?" Peeta brushes his hand against her cheek. "You just let me take care of you for a while."

All the talking seems to have worn Katniss out because she doesn't protest. She just nods and leans into Peeta's steady, reassuring hand. Throughout the day, he feeds her little bits of food and lots of water. The rain must be making the daytime temperature considerably cooler because Katniss starts to shiver a little - she _is_ lying on a stone floor. But she's still too weak to get into the sleeping bag and even though it's draped over her body, her feet stick out the end. So Peeta rubs them for a while, trying to get the blood flowing. Then, he strips off his jacket and wraps them in it before pulling the bag up tight around her chin. I used to tuck him in the same way on cold winter nights here in Twelve.

Peeta explains to her regretfully that her boots and socks are still to damp to offer any warmth and with the rain, it's doubtful they'll be dry for a long time. Katniss, who's been quiet for most the afternoon, now tells him about the feast and then explains everything else that happened to her in the arena before the rules were changed. Peeta's shocked that Thresh let her go, but apparently Katniss isn't. She says it's a Seam thing.

"It's like the bread," she says. "How I never seem to get over owing you for that."

"The bread?" Peeta's just as confused as I am. I wasn't aware he'd ever given her anything. Even that strudel he baked so long ago never reached her hands. "What? From when we were kids. I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead."

"But you didn't know me," Katniss insists. "We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't have even been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then."

"When did that boy give her bread?" my wife asks, clearly as confused as I am. "I wasn't aware he did anything other than stare and stalk her."

I don't have an answer, so I stay quiet.

On the screen, Katniss frowns. "Why did you, anyway?"

Peeta sighs. "Why? You know why." But Katniss shakes her head, which must have hurt because she winces. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing."

"Haymitch? What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing," Peeta says and changes the subject. This whole exchange has been very confusing. What I do know is that, apparently, Peeta did work up the courage to do something for Katniss. He'd given her bread, and according to Katniss, it saved her life. But the whole thing about Haymitch… I shake my head to clear it and turn back to the screen. For a while, Katniss and Peeta's conversation takes up the entirely of the screen. It's either hugely popular in the Capitol or the rain has driven everyone into hiding and this is the most exciting thing happening.

Katniss and Peeta move on to discuss Cato and Thresh. Peeta hopes they kill each other, thereby leaving them with only the Five tribute left, but Katniss grows unhappy at that thought. She figures that Thresh would be their friend if the Games weren't happening. I wonder if him saving her life has forged a respect between them.

The cave is quiet and not even the Game's commentators say anything - a first for them. Tears are beginning to well up in those eyes and Katniss' lip begins to tremble.

Peeta notices that she's on the verge of crying and looks at her, worry etched into his face. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?"

Pulling the sleeping bag up, Katniss looks up at him with wet eyes. "I want to go home, Peeta," she says. It's like a little kitten mew - the kind that melts your heart and makes you inexplicably want to break down and cry.

Her words seem to have the same effect on Peeta. His shoulders slump a little, as if he's remembering where he is and why. "You will. I promise." Leaning over her, he gives her another kiss.

My wife gives a little grunt. " _You_ will, he said. He has not intention of coming out alive if there's a choice."

"But there won't be," I tell her. "They can both come home if they're the last ones left."

"You don't believe that, do you? How thick can you get? The Capitol's putting on a show. My guess is that one of them will be killed by the Gamemakers now that they both seem to be recovering from their wounds. Tragedy, oh the tragedy. How their young love bloomed and perished so quickly."

Her words stop me cold. Of course. Sure, maybe similar thoughts have been lingering in the back of my mind, but hearing her say it out loud…

The words couldn't be truer. There's no way the Capitol will let things end Happily Ever After.


	18. A Shocking Announcement

A dank cave on a rainy day isn't the most romantic place for an intense kiss, but the action itself makes up for it's lack of atmosphere.

This is Peeta's first _real_ kiss. Katniss may have kissed him once before and since then, his lips have brushed hers a few times. But this is the first time he's ever done anything this - impassioned. They lean into each other and I swear heat actually burns between them. Katniss closes her eyes as the kiss deepens. My wife makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, but I can almost hear the sighs and cheers in the Capitol.

Peeta is the first to break away, his attention caught by the fresh blood staining the bandages on Katniss' head. He gives her another affectionate kiss on the nose, then his arm encircles her.

"I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's your bedtime anyway."

I don't think it's gotten any warmer, but Katniss puts on her still damp socks and insists that Peeta put his jacket back on.

"I'll take first watch," she offers. When Peeta makes to object, she cuts him off. "No really. I've slept a lot today."

"Come here, then. The bag's big enough for two and I'm not sleeping unless you're beside me."

Katniss is shivering, despite the socks, so finally crawls in beside Peeta. He puts her head down on his arm so that she has something soft to rest on and then puts his other arm around her - safeguarding this girl against the night.

Whatever the Gamemakers wanted to achieve with the rainstorm, they haven't gotten their results yet because the weather continues through the next day. Katniss can't hunt until it stops, but they have no food in the cave. There hasn't been much conversation either - something that won't sit well with the Capitol for much longer, so it's a great relief when Katniss starts up a conversation.

"Peeta, you said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"

It's the perfect question to pull the audience in. This should keep them safe for a bit.

"Oh let's see," Peeta pauses. "I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair… it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up."

I stiffen. It's the first time he's mention me onscreen. I can feel my wife's eyes on me, but I ignore them.

"Your father?" Katniss asks. "Why?"

"He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner," Peeta recalls.

"What? You're making that up!"

"No, true story. And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you? And he said, "Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen."

Now I can't brush off the burning glare she's giving me. I glance sideways at my wife.

"So now the truth comes out," she says in a measured voice. "You wanted her. You've always wanted her."

"No," I shake my head.

"You never wanted me, did you? Yes I was from a merchant family, but heaven forbid you get a community home girl!"

"That's not -" I try to say.

"Don't you understand that I never had anyone care about me? I wasn't in the home by choice! My parents were dead. My brother was soon to be dead. And now I find out that the only person alive who I thought cared about me wanted the apothecary's daughter? And not even from you! I find out from out nearly dead son via the national broadcast. Well, thank you very much for your years of _dedication._ Our own son knows more about taking care of someone that you do, apparently."

She gets up and leaves the room before I can get a word in edgewise. The room is very quiet now. It's true that I'd loved Katniss' mother. But she'd never given me so much as a second glance. Up until Peeta announced it to our whole world, I doubt she even knew I liked her in that way. She'd always had her eye on that boy … so after that… I let her go, right? I moved on and found love myself.

Just because I loved one woman in the past doesn't mean I don't remember exactly what caught my eye about the girl who became my wife. I admired her courage. She was in my year at school and always volunteered to answer questions - something that scared me to death. Everyone knew she was from the community home, but that didn't matter to me. I was always so impressed by her. And she was beautiful. Not everyone thought so but I did. Even still, it took me awhile to approach her.

I remember she didn't have any lunch one day and I worked up the courage to sit down next to her and share mine. We forged a bond that day. She was very clever and school came much easier to her, so she helped me with the work. I think I toned down her animosity a little too.

A few years later, her brother was reaped. It was the only time I ever saw her cry, even to this day. The fire inside was always there, but after that year, it was much more apparent. And since I have almost none myself, it enthralled me. It was only recently - maybe when the second baby was born - that she became angry to the point of abuse. But I vividly recall her gently cradling our first son the day he was born, so somewhere, underneath her temper, is the girl I fell for so long ago.

But I don't think she'll ever come back - not now. But there is one thing I am sure of. I must explain this to her. I can't live with myself if she thinks that I'm still stuck on Katniss' mother.


	19. Learning to Love Again

"I can explain."

"Save your breath."

"My breath's worth wasting this time."

It's like a different person has taken over me. The man I know doesn't confront. That man doesn't beg, nor does he fight back. But tonight, not sorting through what's happened would be so cruel I have no choice. She has to know that I didn't choose her as a second string -a backup.

My wife sits in the kitchen, her back turned. Arms crossed. Mouth drawn tight. The look in her eyes makes my children flee and myself head to the bakery for some sanity.

"You don't have to listen," I say tentatively. "But I'm going to say it anyway."

"Who are you kidding? You don't ever say anything."

"Well, now I am. Because… Because Peeta was wrong."

There's a long silence. I'm not sure she's still breathing.

"And you expect me to believe that and fling myself into your arms crying tears of joy?" my wife says dryly. "I guess you are a star-crossed lover yourself."

"Everyone's a star crossed lover," I tell her quietly. "That's what the Capitol doesn't understand. Any real love had to be fought for. Has to withstand the ups and downs of this world. It's not just those kids. It's all of us. Every single person living here in Panem."

She turns slightly, eyeing me out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she's checking to make sure I didn't write that down beforehand. "And you think that our relationship is real love?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," I sigh. "Because it takes two to make this work."

"See, you always avoid the question. You talk in circles! Do you love me?" Only now does to face me completely, holding my wavering gaze with her hawk-like eyes. Underneath the years of suffering, I see a tinge of the girl who defiantly ignored what the other kids whispered about her and her brother. Nobodies. Community home kids. Not really merchant but not Seam. Misfits.

My answer seems like it should be a lot more poetic. Maybe ending in a flourish of some sort. But my voice only sounds weary when I speak.

"I loved the woman you once were."

"Well, she's gone. And so you're telling me that Peeta just made up that story? Even he's not that good."

"No, he was spot on," I admit. "I did tell him that. But I was only reminiscing. I was drawn to that woman for a very long time, but it changed when I met you."

"See, that's the problem. If you truly loved her, you can't move on just like that. She was always the one the boys talked about. Everyone liked her. She always had plenty of friends."

"And you have spirit that I never will."

This takes her by surprise. My wife stops. "It's not spirit," she mutters. "It's temper."

"It was spirit at one point. And now it's anger. You've … You've done things I can't ever forgive. But I understand why you make those mistakes. You were never taught how to care for someone really. It's my fault for being too scared to confront you about it until now." I pause to gather myself. "You've hurt our children. And it's wrong. It's my job to defend them and from now on, I will. I can let you hurt them anymore."

"I," she pauses. I don't think we've had a conversation of like this for at least eighteen years. "You- I'm not going to change. You can't fix this. I'm not dough- you can't put me back together. If you can't learn to -"

"No, I can't fix this. But we can learn fill in the gaps that each other has. It's the only way this will work out. You've changed over the years and I know I have too. So we need to understand who we are now in order to rekindle what we had."

It's like I'm back in the Justice Building with Peeta right after he finished releasing his feelings about me. After calling me coward. I've essentially just told my wife that she's gotten abusive over the years and needs to look at how she's showing up. This time, it's me who's let go of the years of resentment and disappointment. And again, I don't know how she'll respond.

"I can't ever go back to who I was. And you can't change who I've become. But I'm willing to go into this as one knowing that I need to… go a little easier on people. But you have to help me instead of holing up inside the bakery."

I nod. Life is messy and it's damaging beyond belief. But I truly believe that's why people are here on this earth. To learn, to make mistakes, and most importantly, to help each other in any way that we can. As I embrace my wife for the first time in a long, long time, I remember why I used to look forward to her hugs. Heat can either burn or warm you. And tonight, it's warmer than the fire on a winter's night


	20. Bloodstains and Berry Juice

**A/N -** Please _note: I changed my username but it's still me!_

* * *

The scarlet blood is washed away in the torrential downpour as if it had never existed. Never flowed through the veins of a living boy.

Cato and Thresh have been hunting each other for days and it was only a matter of time before the inevitable battle. But even as the boys wrestled in the mud, splattered with red and brown, I was unprepared for the desperate, brutal fight that ensued. Which is odd because this is what the Games are supposed to be about. Us watching the tributes smash each other to death. These two boys, giants when compared to the rest of the original field, clawed and hacked and stabbed until the winner emerged.

Cato barely stopped to glance at the still body of the Eleven tribute. The rain poured down his face along with sweat, but he just gritted his teeth and turned. Off to hunt down another tribute.

Clearly the rainstorm was targeting these boys because not long after the fight was over, the body cleared, and Cato well on his way, the rain ceased like someone had turned of the spicket. Which of course, they had.

Four tributes. Only four. And two of them are a team. So my son really might have a chance to leave the arena now. For the first time since he was reaped, I allow myself to think about what that would mean. Peeta back home. His cakes in the window again. He'd be rich, too. We'd never have to eat stale bread. And the Victor's Village house - he'd own that, too. All of the food, wealth, fame and riches would certainly improve our way of living. But most important than any of that is the fact that I'd get my son back. Peeta would be safe, what with Katniss finally his and protected from the reaping forevermore. Yes, maybe, this dream could become a reality.

Then I stop myself. There are still two other tributes who have Katniss and Peeta on their kill list. And one of them's Cato. He's definitely the bigger threat of the two - I think the tribute from Five is hoping to hide until everyone else has killed each other. She's doing pretty well with staying hidden, but food is hard to come by. She's weak from the lack of it. But even still, she's probably clever enough to set some sort of trap. Don't count anyone out until the cannon blows.

So onward then. With the fair weather comes the opportunity for Katniss to hunt. She and Peeta gorge themselves with heaping plates of breakfast, then head out. It's the first time Peeta's been out and about in ages. And even Katniss seems a little dazed after a few days lying down with her head injury.

Certainly, they aren't the strongest yet, but there are two of them. Maybe, if they're attacked, they'll be able to hold their ground. As they trek, Katniss seems to be annoyed by something which turns out to be my son.

Apparently, he walks too loudly. She doesn't say it directly, but she means he's scaring off the game. He must understand what she's getting at too because after awhile, he offers to gather roots while she hunts.

They agree on a whistle to signal their safety and then disperse. I can't help but think that to split up means sure death should they get jumped. Even with the strength of numbers, a confrontation with Cato would have been bad news. Alone, weak, barely recovered from injuries… Well, they might as well fire the cannon now.

But when the sound does ring out across the arena, it's not for either of them.

Katniss has been silently creeping along, hunting and Peeta's been patiently gathering roots. He wandered a little ways and found some berries, which of course, would provide diversity to their meal. The noise of the current must have been too loud for him to hear her whistles because he stops responding. Panic begins to set in Katniss's face and she rushes back to their spot. And then the cannons blow.

What they didn't see that the viewers did was the way the Five tribute had been following them for a little while, attracted by their noise. When Peeta had gone to gather berries, she'd carefully snatched just the tiniest nibble of cheese and a handful of the berries.

If she can locate them, Cato will be able to as well. And I'm pretty sure he's not coming for the food. Still, this girl is smart enough to only take a little of goat cheese and just a few berries. But she only needs one to pass her lips before she drops to the ground. Dead.

"What - are they-" my wife stares uncomprehendingly at the screen. "What the hell just happened?"

Katniss clears it up. The berries are poisonous. Nightlock, she calls them. And if just one berry had tempted Peeta, he too would be on the ground. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I realize how close he was to death.

On the screen, we see Cato look up at the sound of the cannon, and like a wolf, he tries to calculate what it means. Peeta has started a fire and the smoke is clearly visible. Cato must know that the cannon signified someone in that vicinity and the fire basically announced the exact location. To my surprise, though, he doesn't beeline for the spot.

"Well, it would serve them right if he did track them down. They needed to get out of there - it was clearly their kill whether it was intentional or not! Why'd they start a fire?" After a pause, she shakes her head and mutters, "sorry I'm not supposed to say that, am I?"

"Just change the way you view it," I tell her. "Cato must think they're playing a trick or maybe he understands they outnumber him two to one. If you were in that situation, would you go knowing they're together and allied?"

"No," she admits grudgingly. "I suppose not. So what's there to do now?"

"Well, the climax can't be far off. Now we wait."


	21. The Finale

**A/N-** Note: _I did change my username! It's still me ;)_

* * *

Sometimes you don't know how scared you are until everything stops and you have nothing left to distract you.

And on this restless evening with hundreds of people standing beside me, my chest is tight and I'm aware of a strange pounding my ears. My sons convinced me to watch the finale in the square. And despite my reservations about crowds, they are the only thing keeping me staring up at the oversized screen. But even in my terrified state, I can tell there's something else behind the fear. A hunger, but not the kind that usually plagues the district. For the first time in years, we have hope. Our tributes might make it home - both of them. And we're going to be right beside them through this final night. Whatever happens, be it death or victory, the tributes from Twelve will have the entire district on their side.

Even before the water had been drained from the small bodies of water in the arena, Peeta and Katniss had been expecting a Gamemaker intervention. And soon enough, every pond, stream, and trickle of water in the whole arena had been abolished…. aside from the lake.

So, there really wasn't any choice but to head to the Cornucopia. They'd gone to end the seventy-fourth Hunger Games. However, Cato hadn't made an appearance all day. And now, as the blackness seeps into the square and the arena, I'm sure he'll make his move.

Katniss and Peeta rest by the lake, side by side. They're both tense, despite the lazy feel the scene might emit. They are no fools - both understand what's coming. After a while, Katniss breaks the silence with the four-note melody that Rue had sung.

The mockingjays, who've been sailing from tree to tree, now alight on branches at the sound of her voice. Katniss repeats the notes and slowly all the birds begin to take up the song.

"Just like your father," Peeta says wistfully, listening the birds warble.

For a few peaceful minutes, all that can be heard is the birds harmonizing, singing the sun to bed just like Katniss did for Rue.

And then they begin to scream.

One by one, the birds alter the melody until the song is broken by a chorus of shrieks and cries of alarm.

Peeta and Katniss pull each to their feet, weapons at the ready. Cato comes barreling out of the trees. He has no visible weapons, but he charges them anyway. And so it begins. He must have a plan - I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to run at their enemy empty handed. Unless of course, Cato's gone mad - which isn't all that uncommon in the arena. Katniss and Peeta are lucky - being alone for so long under so much stress does things to a person.

But our tributes don't seem to be Cato's priority. He runs right past them, heaving, and his face is a deep plum color.

And then, we spot it. The huge something bounding into sight. A wolf-like creature that can only be the work of the Gamemakers. This changes things. Maybe they thought it wouldn't be exciting enough with Cato outnumbered. But now, the field is even once again. Any strength numbers would have given our tributes will be meaningless against these mutts.

Katniss turns to follows Cato, sprinting towards the only shelter in sight - the Cornucopia. Peeta, catching on, hobbles after her as fast as he can manage on his weak leg.

"Go, Katniss!" he hollers, waving his hands at her. It's like they're under the tree where the tracker jackers attacked. "Go!"

That incident feels so long ago. As if it were apart of a different Games. The only thing that matters now is golden horn, the night, and these three children facing a monstrous pack of demons.

"Heaven help them," my wife presses her hands to her face, her eyes glued on the screen as Peeta begins to scale the horn. The mutts snarl and snap at his legs, but Katniss pulls him up.

The mutts rise, standing on their back legs with apparent ease. We get a good look at them for the first time. All different sizes and colors with huge teeth, salivating mouths, and razor-like claws. The horn provides an extra obstacle, but something tells me these mutts won't stop until they get their prey. As if to prove my point, one of them takes a flying leap at the horn and hangs there.

Katniss stares at the mutt for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. Then she reels and for a moment I think she's going over. Her hands begin to shake and her breath comes so fast I'm worried she'll hyperventilate. She shrieks a little, too.

Peeta's alert, looking at Katniss with just the slightest bit of terror. "Katniss?" he grips her arm. Maybe she's breaking at last.

"It's her!" Katniss half chokes.

"Who?"

She looks around wildly, her eyes huge.

Peeta now looks like he's on the verge of breaking himself. He's looking at Katniss with such a scared expression. After a moment, he shakes her shoulders, as if trying to bring her back to him. "What is it, Katniss?" he asks fiercely.

"It's them," she gets out. "It's all of them. The others. Rue and Foxface and… all of the other tributes."

Peeta gasps along with the rest of us. The horrified sounds coming from the square match those our tributes are making on the screen. They've somehow made this more barbarous. By creating monsters to resemble the tributes of these Games… it strikes home with the ones still alive. To see the kids that they knew, that were alive and breathing and… human just a few days ago -

"What did they do to them?" Peeta's voice now holds the same note of hysteria. "You don't think… those could be their real eyes?"

"Oh, oh, _oh_ " my wife murmurs, shaking her head back and forth repeatedly. Her fury is directed at the Gamemakers. "How could you possibly do this? They're children!" she screeches. "Just children! How can you live with yourselves?"

The mutts haven't given up. If anything, they're more determined than before. They continue to hurl themselves at the tributes who are either shell-shocked or in Cato's case, still kneeling to catch his breath.

A mutt catches Peeta by surprise and he plummets. As my youngest son cries out, my heart fails for a moment. He hangs over the side as Katniss tries hauls him back up, the uneven surface of the curved Cornucopia proving difficult to scale.

"Kill it, Peeta!" she's crying. "Kill it!"

His knife's out now. When at last the blade makes contact, she's able to drag him back to temporary safety on the top of the horn.

In the madness of the mutt attack, they've let Cato slide down their priority list. As Katniss takes out another mutt, he staggers to his feet. For a moment, he stands completely still and then… the tribute launches forward and wrestles Peeta into a headlock.

Katniss whips around, arrow nocked. My son's air supply has been cut off by Cato's massive arms, and Peeta rakes his fingers across the flesh, trying to get loose. But it's almost a halfhearted effort because the mutt that almost dragged him over split open his leg. Thick, dark liquid is oozing out, soaking the shreds that were once his pant leg. Katniss has her arrow pointed towards Cato's head, but she wavers.

"Just shoot the arrow!" someone howls in the crowd.

"Kill him!"

"End this!"

"Come home!"

The cries are unanimous.

But Cato voices what Katniss must have been thinking. "Shoot me and he goes down with me."

Everything goes still - here in the square and in the arena. The Capitol must want to tension of this moment to enter the hearts of every single citizen of Panem.

My own ragged breath echoes in the sudden stillness. My mind is oddly blank. Nothing except the vague knowledge that my son is suffocating. His lips are purple, his eyes wide and bloodshot. This is the end for him. It looks like it costs every ounce of his being to raise his fingers, coated in his own blood, and make a mark on Cato's hand. An "X".

It's like they have a telepathic connection. Katniss' lightning reflexes pull the bow down and the arrow sinks into the flesh of the boy from Two.

And that's it. Peeta's released, Katniss lunges for him, and when the utter panic dies away, it's only the Twelve tributes left clinging to each other on the top of the horn. Cato's crys mingle with that of the mutts. He attempts to fight, but although valiant, is eventually overcome. As the night wears on, the mutts rip away more and more of his flesh. They drag him across the ground and into the Cornucopia. On top of the horn, Peeta's wound is still gushing and Katniss has no choice but to tie a tourniquet. His face is ashen, ghastly in the white light of the moon.

"Don't go to sleep," Katniss whispers.

They spend the night in each other's arms, under his jacket. Peeta is shaking, another sign he's not faring well. Oddly enough, it's him who keeps whispering words of comfort.

"Cato may win this thing yet," Katniss says at one point.

"Don't you believe it."

Or-

"Why don't they just kill him?"

"You know why."

No one leaves the square, sits down, or even moves. They shift and sway, the children press against their parents, eyes heavy with sleep. But we vowed to be there for our tributes and this is their hour of need. We will stay and watch this, no matter how gruesome or infinite.

As the night wears on and on, my son slips into a little bit of a daze. When his head drops onto Katniss' shoulder, she begins to scream.

"Peeta! _Peeta!_ PEETA!" she bawls. "Peeta, wake up! Please, don't die! PEETA!"

His eyes open, unfocused but alive, and he shakes his head as if to clear it.

This happens several more times. The night seems endless. The darkness blurs together, only interrupted by the occasional scream from Katniss and the more frequent moans from Cato. But at some point, the sky begins to lighten.

Cato still hasn't died, but his whimpers are getting unbearable. I almost forget how much I want this boy dead because, to be honest, I don't want there to be anymore killing at all.

So when Katniss puts him out of his misery, I press the three fingers of my left hand to my lips and hold them out to the screen. My wife copies and soon, the whole square has adopted the gesture. Because this one, small humane act has ended this perpetual night. It reminds us that every tribute was still a child. And now most of them are dead.

The mutts disappear, the cannon sounds, but no trumpets signaling their victory. Our tributes fall to the ground, stiff and in pain. It takes awhile, but Katniss gets to her feet and then helps Peeta do the same. She lets him sip water from her cupped hands, then does the same for herself. The hovercraft takes Cato's body away.

Peeta's wound has opened again. If this doesn't end soon, he may die anyway.

"What are they waiting for?" my wife mutters.

The initial relief that flooded the square at the sound of the cannon is dissipating. Claudius Templesmith clears up the confusion.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games," his voice booms.

Murmurs of dissent and confusion run through the crowd. Contestants? They're victors now... aren't they?

"The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."


	22. Suicide

**A/N-** Sorry _for the previous cliffhanger, but not really :) People have been asking whether this is the end or if I'm continuing to Catching Fire. The answer is yes, I'm continuing._

* * *

Shock billows like a cloud of dust.

Then, someone starts to cry. Wails and angry shouts disrupt the square.

"How could they!" someone shouts.

Peacekeepers stationed around the square move in to quiet the unruly crowd. But the agitation on people's faces tells me that no Peacekeeper is going to quiet them.

Then, there are some people who just look around, stunned, as if they can't quite comprehend what's going on. Maybe that's better than understanding what Claudius meant.

 _Only one winner may be allowed._

So, however this plays out, only one tribute is coming out. One of these children who believed themselves to be safe at last is going to be bled white within the hour. Among these two tributes, only one can come home.

We've all been played for fools. And truly, we deserve that title. Because haven't we all watched these Games for years? Don't we know the masterminds of this event? To think for a second that they'd let these two leave… how could any of us even consider it? I did think that the Gamemakers would kill them, but not now. I thought surely they would have done away with them long before. When they didn't, I guess I assumed that they were safe. The Capitol wanted them out. But everyone here swallowed the lie fed to us and now, we've all been caught by utter surprise. No one was expecting this. No, wait. I know one person has suspecting this all along. Her cynical look on the world and the Games in particular have left her prepared for the worst.

My wife's jaw is set in a hard, defiant line. She tried to warn me. I know now that she's been right all along.

"You knew this would happen, didn't you? Or something like this?" I whisper hoarsely.

"Those Gamemakers who call themselves human would never let them come out alive," she answers, her eyes still on the screen.

"And…" I stop because we both know who's coming out. Peeta will never in a million years let himself be the one to leave alive.

"I guess this is goodbye," my wife tells me. "He's going to want it to be her."

Peeta and Katniss seem to have been taken by the same shock as the crowd. They look at each other for a long time. Katniss' eyes are full of disbelief, defiance, and fear.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising," Peeta says quietly. Maybe he has nothing in common with his mother as far as personality goes, but somewhere in the far corners of their brains, they both recognized the depth of the Gamemaker's cruelty. He shakily gets to his feet, clearly in pain. His hand goes to his belt and draws his knife.

Katniss, who's on edge to the point of paranoia, has her bow trained on him in less than a second. But Peeta isn't going in for the kill. In fact, the knife is already plunging into the lake. With a splash, it sinks. I know that some lucky Capitol resident who goes to visit this arena will find that knife and it will become valuable beyond belief.

Realizing what he's done, Katniss immediately drops her weapons and stumbles backwards.

"No," Peeta tells her. "Do it." Limping, he moves towards her. Picking up her bow, he shoves it back into her hands.

"I can't," Katniss shakes her head back and forth. "I won't."

My son gets a hard look in his eyes. There's bravery there, but also terror. "Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something." His voices drops. "I don't want to die like Cato."

"Then you shoot me!" Now Katniss thrusts her bow at him, which is pointless because even if he wanted to kill her, he can't use them. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!"

"You know I can't." Peeta lets the weapons falls to the ground.

The square is dead silent. Nobody even dares to breath. We're all waiting for the blood to flow. We should be celebrating. No matter what, Twelve has won for the first time in years. But this feels like a loss. Because we should have two tributes leaving and the Capitol has denied us that. It's always awful when the final two are district partners, but this is different. They thought they were allies.

"Fine," Peeta says, leaning down. "I'll go first anyway." In one swift motion, he peels the bandage off his leg. Blood immediately rushes forth, like a dam shattering.

Something like a sob forces itself out of Katniss' throat. "No," she cries, falling to her knees. "You can't kill yourself." She's trying to press the bandage back on his leg now.

"Katniss, it's what I want."

"You're not leaving me here alone." She's is still on the ground, hopelessly holding the bandage to Peeta's wound. Maybe she thinks by clinging to him, she can keep him in this world.

I can hear the suppressed sobs in the square now as people watch this final sacrifice. These two tributes are braver than I'll ever be. Each willing to die to save the other.

Gently, my son pulls Katniss to her feet. "Listen," he says. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me. You have to go home, Katniss, because if you die in here, my life won't mean anything anymore. It'll be pointless. I'll probably just wither away or something so that I can be with you on the other side. Please, Katniss. Please, do it for me."

His words are so noble, so brave. I never deserved a son like him. How could I have spent so many years staying in the shadows, not bothering to fix our relationship? But Katniss doesn't seem to be listening. Her fingers are grappling with something at her waist. As she holds it up, I realize it's a pouch. The one she filled with berries to possibly use as bait for Cato.

I understand what's she's going to do and so does Peeta.

"No!" he grabs her wrist. "I won't let you."

"Trust me," she whispers, looking up into his eyes. Peeta holds her gaze for a long time, then his grip loosens and releases her hand. Katniss lets a few berries tumble from the pouch to his palm, then shakes out a handful for herself. "On the count of three?"

In that split second, the world stops turning. Because this is suicide. We won't have any victor at all, now. Just two dead tributes, a pair of cannons fired, and a pouch of berries that ended their lives.

Peeta leans down kisses Katniss for the last time. It's such a tender kiss, bursting with emotion, that my eyes fill with tears. It's his final goodbye to the girl he loves. The girl he's loved his whole life.

"On the count of three," he tells her.

They stand back to back, hands locked as if to stay together after death. I wonder if the Capitol will separate the corpses or leave their fingers entwined. If they do let them stay connected, I'll see to it myself that these two are buried together.

 _Goodbye, Peeta,_ I think. _I know I wasn't the best father, but I promise that I'll keep you and Katniss together when the wooden box arrives here in Twelve. I promise, Peeta. And you have to know that I love you. I will never forget the way to laugh and the way your gentle personality brings out the best in everyone. You deserved more than this and I'm so, so sorry. You will be missed every day for the rest of our lives._

Others murmur their condolences. A couple of brave souls target the Capitol - defiantly bashing them for letting this happen. Most people just keep their eyes on the screen, tears rolling down their cheeks.

In the arena, the sun glints of the dark skins of the berries as our tributes prepare to end these Games.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Their hands rise to their mouths. The berries slide past their lips and I hear the crowd weeping. This tragedy will unite us in a way the district has never been before. Because each and every one of us know how callous this is. Can the Capitol not see what we do? Two kids. Scared. Alone. Drawing their final breaths.

Then the cannons fire. They sound different. My head snaps up. Those aren't cannons! They're trumpets.

"Stop! Stop!" Claudius Templesmith can't hide the frenzied tone to his voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you - the tributes of District Twelve!"

I glance around. Confusion muddles my brain. People begin to murmur. This has happened so fast. Our tributes winning. Dying. And now… winning again?

"They've let them live!"

"They're coming home!"

Katniss and Peeta are disgorging the berries now, using their shirts to wipe out their mouths. Even a swallow of that juice could still end their lives. They rinse with water, then when they're sure nothing has made it into their stomach, topple into each other's waiting embrace.

"You didn't swallow any?" she gasps.

Still clasping her body to his, Peeta shakes his head. "You?"

"Guess I'd be dead by now if I did."

Here in the square, his brothers have begun to smile. All around us, people are taking gulps of air, wiping their eyes, and hugging one another. Our tributes are coming home. In just a few days, my son will be here. With us. We won't have to face the wooden boxes showing up on our doorsteps.

My wife is blinking, clearly in shock. "How'd they let this happen?"

"Maybe the Capitol planned it," I tell her. "Maybe they intended for them both to live after all."

But she shakes her head. "Did you hear Templesmith's voice? This was no plan. They're coming home by the skin of their teeth."

"You're not complaining, are you?"

She just grunts in response.

Even though two ladders drop from the hovercraft to lift our victors, they refuse to let go of one another. Katniss helps my son onto the first rung of the ladder, then places her foot by his. As they rise into the sky, we realize Peeta's wound hasn't stopped bleeding. How can he still have any blood left to shed? The camera follows them into the hovercraft and so we get a tight shot of him as he crumples to the ground, unconscious at last.

Capitol doctors set to work at once. They get him to a table and we see them leaning feverishly over him, hooking his body up to tubes and beeping machines.

"He still might die," my wife says. "There's no guarantees they can fix him."

I turn to her incredulously. "Have you seen these doctors? If anyone can heal him, it's them."

The last shot we get of our tributes before the screen turns to the announcers is Katniss throwing herself into the glass over and over. She's screaming Peeta's name like her life depends on it.

"PEETA! PEETA! PEETA!"


	23. The Lover's Reunion

"Remember folks, the star-crossed lover's reunion airs LIVE tonight! Tune in the victory ceremony to see their arms wrapped around each other - safe at last!" Caesar Flickerman's voice calls from the living room.

Our house is buzzing with people. For the past few days, it's been complete madness as we try to arrange a homecoming celebration worthy of our two victors. The Capitol will supply most of the food, but some of us have decided to provide a few dishes from home. You, know, something comforting.

"Is Henry willing to play his fiddle? We have two other guys already, but my cousin's not quite sure she'll have her instrument fixed in time. I think the more we have the better," someone says on my right.

"Better sign him up. I'll confirm when I drop by to deliver the milk tomorrow morning," another replies.

It's been so long since Twelve has had a victor that everyone's going a bit overboard for the celebration. It might also be that, for the first time in Games history, both our tributes are coming home. This is no funeral. We lost two children to the reaping, but despite the odds, have gained them back. Why shouldn't we have a celebration?

The cameras have shown us hardly any footage of Katniss and Peeta. It's been mostly announcers discussing this and that. Interviews. Discussions with the sponsors. How they think the Capitol has responded to these lovers. Bets on what they'll be wearing. If they'll get a standing ovation. Petty things that really shouldn't belong in a commentary about the Hunger Games.

We haven't even seen any replays of the action in the arena either because all that will be tonight. The required viewing for all of Panem. The recap, and in our case the reunion, of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. Our victors are being cleaned up and dressed in dazzling outfits once again. The stage is being prepared for Caesar to host. Yes, tonight, we'll see Peeta and Katniss together again for the first time in days before watching the recap of the whole event.

It's the one part of the night that the district isn't looking forward to, and I doubt our victors are all that keen to see it either. But it's just today, tomorrow, and by noon the day after, they'll be pulling into our station.

Since we're the winning district, our screens haven't blacked out in days. We'll get full coverage of the ceremony tonight and the final interview tomorrow afternoon. Not that anyone's been paying attention to the screens lately. We've all been so busy with preparations. But even I can't deny that some of us have been able to catch snatches of the conversation.

"What were you feeling when the victors lifted those berries to their lips?" Caesar says as I pass through the living room. On the screen, he's standing next to a Capitol woman and her daughter. They've been interviewing many Capitol residents about the Games, but I have yet to really see any of them. These two residents are adorned in vibrant colors, elaborate hairstyles, and large hats with long slender feathers. The girl must be about seven or eight. To me, all the makeup looks garish on her young face.

"Well," the woman fans herself. "We were at a viewing party down several blocks over, you know where the Belmonts have their mansion. They did that incredible firework show down on the lawn last year," she gushes. Caesar nods, even though I have no idea what she's talking about. "And I could feel every glass of champagne bubbling in my stomach as I looked at those berries. They reminded me of the berry tart Mrs. Wimborne made especially for the occasion, but of course, hers are edible. My husband and I have just fallen in love with those tributes from Twelve. Their whole story is so breathtakingly romantic. I was worried we'd never get to see her pretty dresses again! I almost wish the sponsors had sent her something pretty to wear. Poor thing was always dressed in those pants."

"When we go back to school," the little girl says. Caesar bends down so that she can talk into the powder blue, slim microphone that matches his hair. "I think we'll do a lesson on their story!" she says. "I hope we get to do the part when Peeta punches that big mean boy from Two and then tries to wrestle him on the ground!" she acts out a few of the moves. "Maybe we'll get to do a field trip!"

The festive curtain that's taken place of the fear that's been hanging over Twelve is ripped aside for a moment. This little girl has no concept of what she watches year after year. They teach about it, they idolize the victors. But the ones who die? They are dismissed. _The big, mean boy from Two._ Cato. I'm sure he has family that are mourning him. His district was so close. I flip the tables for a moment and try to imagine hearing that about Peeta after he died. It's nothing short of revolting

And the Capitol woman is, if anything, worse. She never mentioned the fact that our tributes were dying. That they were seconds away from committing suicide. No, she wished "the sponsors would have sent Katniss something pretty". Pretty compared to choosing death. To non-existance. And why should she know any different? She will never have her little girl returned to her in a box.

It's with a heavy heart that I return to the others. Maybe we should tone down the festivities a little. Perhaps we've forgotten in our small moment of triumph what these Games really mean.

Later, we gather in the square to watch the evening's affair. The night air hums with insects and electricity from the screen. Gravel crunches under our shoes as we crane our necks to get a good view. People's voices bounce around, exuberant at the prospect of seeing our victors reunite. I wish I could join in the spirited energy, but I haven't been able to shake the image of the Capitol woman and her daughter from my head.

"It's that time," purrs a voice and as the anthem drowns out the crickets, Caesar Flickerman waltzes out onto the stage.

One one side, a huge screen - larger even than the one set up here in Twelve - has been prepared for the viewing of the recap. On the other, a fancy, red plush couch is waiting for the victors.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome!" Caesar cries lavishly. He waits for the cheers and hysterical screams of the Capitol audience to run their course, then holds up his hands for silence. "Now, you've watched them prepare to die for each other. You've ridden that ladder into the hovercraft. Watched as they were torn away for restoration. And now, the most exciting part is yet to come. Are you ready to watch your victors reconvene at last?" His voice has been growing steadily louder, along with the buzz of the crowd. Now, the place erupts again - like an uncontainable volcano. Caesar indulgently lets the noise go on for a bit before hushing them. "You will get the experience the magic firsthand, but before we bring them out, let's meet their entourage!"

He introduces a bunch of people who're their prep teams. Large eyelashes, putridly green skin, wild hair. Many of their attributes have clearly been altered, as is customary for stylists and prep. They bow flamboyantly, smiling and waving to great applause. It's hard for me to appreciate their work, though. They've made the Games into a beauty pageant.

Effie Trinket is presented. With her face comes the memory of the sultry day of the reaping when my son was taken away. I shudder a little. After that, their stylists make an appearance. Then Haymitch. His introduction instigates some scattered applause and whistles here in the square. He did keep our tributes alive and we owe him.

Then, at last, the crowds voices swell until they have melded into a ubiquitous howl. White lights slice the air and smoke mimics the motions of a water at a rolling boil. Through the haze of effects, two figures can be seen rising from under the stage. My heart gives a little leap as the lights fade and we finally see our victors. How healthy they look, standing clean and polished under the bright lights. No more are the starving, sickly kids from the arena. The two tributes, blinking away the spots in their eyes, are radiant as the moon that hangs over Twelve itself.

Katniss finally lets her eyes roam over Peeta. Her expression turns hungry as she throws herself into his arms. For a moment, I think they're going down, but Peeta rights himself - still clinging to the girl he almost lost forever. Now I notice a cane-like mechanism in his hand. It brings me back to reality - reminds me that he's still not completely healed.

And then, he goes in for the kiss. Under the hot glare of the giant bulbs beaming down on them, they seem to be aware only of each other. Peeta holds Katniss close, pressing his body against hers. Not only are they fused together at the lips, but they have become inseparable. One body. One life source.

Caesar makes several attempts at talking, but they're unsuccessful to say the least. At one point, he goes so far as to tap Peeta on the shoulder, but my son just brushes him aside - earning him wild cheers from the audience.

Here in Twelve, my wife makes a revolted sound at this display of affection. When I tear my eyes away from the screen to glance at her face, her expression is contorted. I guess it is a little uncomfortable to watch our son publicly make out while being broadcasted live to everyone in the country. Even his brothers seem a little disconcerted.

It's Haymitch who finally breaks the two of them apart. And quite literally, because he has to shove them towards the couch. The crowd laughs jovially as they fall onto the cushions. Peeta settles himself, readjusting his cane so that he can put his arm around Katniss. But that doesn't seem to be good enough for her. For whatever reason, she seems to be borderline delirious to see him again. As she lets her sandals fall to the floor and curls up beside him, I begin to detect something else. I'm not sure exactly what it is - maybe desperation? It's only been a few days, but I guess it must have been torturous to be kept apart from him for that long.

What a pair they are, Peeta with his arm around her and Katniss letting her head rest on his shoulder.

"Well, I think we're all properly _warmed up_ ," Caesar jokes. "Now, that might just win the most passionate moment of the night, but we have a few more things in store that might keep you in your seat. I think it's clear though, that these two lovers couldn't wait to get back in each other's arms." Then he winks and adds. "And on each other's lips, am I right?" The audience hoots appreciatively, and the comment even gets a few chuckles here in the square.

Too soon though, the show begins.

Parade. Training. Bloodbath. Tracker jackers.

We're forced to relive each nerve-jerking day of the Games. Now granted, quite a bit of time is spent on our star-crossed lovers, but there's still plenty of gore. When they show the reaction of the victors in the corner of the screen, I see Katniss and Peeta have both gone very pale. They have the same grave look of determination as they watch the replays of everything they must be trying to forget. If this is difficult for us spectators to watch, then it has to be a hundred times harder for them.

As the show wears on, my feet begin to hurt from standing. People are getting restless as we enter the third hour. Babies cry and are immediately hushed by mothers. But all of us grit our teeth and suffer through it the same way we do every year. When the anthem plays to end the showing, we all shake out our stiff limbs and wiggle our joints. That part is over, thank goodness.

President Snow himself splits the winner's crown and presents it to our victors. His paper white hair looks ghostly in the stark light of the stage.

"A final thank you to President Snow and congratulations to our victors from District Twelve - Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen!" Caesar says, wrapping the program up. "Goodnight, Panem! Remember, you haven't seen the last of these two lovebirds yet! Tune in tomorrow to see their final interview here in the Capitol! Broadcast begins at two. Goodnight!"

The seal appears on the screen and the square begins to empty. People shuffle forward, blinking their heavy eyes, as we all draw back into our own quiet homes.

Without the people and the hoopla to distract me, I replay some of the night's most disturbing images in my brain as we trudge along the road towards home. The leaves whisper, the bugs crooning their evening songs once more. In the darkness, I'm very glad that these four silhouettes I call my family will once again be five.

Just one more day. After tomorrow, my son will be home


	24. Homecoming

"They're coming!"

"It's them!"

In the distance, a dark spot grows larger in the hazy afternoon light. Excitement runs like a shiver through the crowd. Thousands of people are gathered to welcome our victors home.

Yesterday was the final interview. The Capitol sure knows how to do cliche. The pink frills, the red roses, and the starched white suit. The lover's theme was sweet, if overdone. Our victors curled up next to each other and discussed this and that with Caesar Flickerman. Here, we counted down the minutes until they could come home.

And, as happens every year with the final interviews, there's not much that's new to the audience. We get to hear their view of the Games, but really, it's old news. I hadn't steeled myself for any kind of shock. And yet, somehow I was still in for one anyway. About halfway through, Caesar casually asked Peeta about his "new leg." My son, who was once small enough to fit in my arms, who I watch grow from a boy to a man, has lost a leg. Somewhere, in a sterile room, they amputated his appendage that was past saving. The doctors have given him a high-tech prosthetic, but there's been an ache in my chest ever since. Because again, it's a reminder how impotent I am. I couldn't protect him. I couldn't keep my promise.

It's definitely their train that's coming towards us now, snaking through the parched landscape. Amidst much cheering and shouting, the sleek engine comes roaring in. It's shadow elongates as it rumbles to a stop beside the packed platform. Peacekeepers emerge from the throngs to clear a path for the victors, but the crowd is already making way. Cameras and reporters, who've come from the Capitol to broadcast the homecoming, push past us to get a better angle. My wife, who's by my side, gives one of them a dirty look.

"It's our children coming home," she says, not caring if they hear. " _They_ should be the one making way."

I nod to acknowledge her, but my own heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid it might burst. Inside that train, behind those flat doors, awaits my son. In a moment, I'll be able to see him. Hear him. Hug him. It's almost too much to bear.

And at last, the doors slide open, revealing Katniss and Peeta. As has become practice, they are connected at the hands. When they step onto the platform, people rush forward to hug and talk to them. Suddenly, they are the most precious thing in Twelve. Maybe it's because for once, the Capitol hasn't won. They can take our children year after year and force them to murder each other, but just this one time, we've outsmarted them. The pride at this small triumph hasn't been lost on the district. The two people standing in front of us are rare symbols of hope. And because rare things are always more valuable, that is what our victors have become.

Someone jabs me in the rib as they push past, plodding through the sea of coal-stained clothes to get close to the victors. My feet suddenly seem too large, my arms too long. I try to back away from the pressing hordes, but only manage to knock into a camera man. He looks very affronted. Possibly I've just ruined a shot.

My son is so close - only a few heads separate us now. He and Katniss are still holding hands, but it's becoming difficult for their hands to stay intertwined as they move through the masses. Katniss' mother and little sister push through the crowd.

"Katniss!" Primrose's shriek can be heard above all the cheering. She throws herself into her sister and seems to be crying and laughing all at once. Katniss bends down, releasing Peeta for a moment, to squeeze the little girl she thought she'd never see again. The two cling to each other, the platform temporarily disappearing. The only things that matters are each other.

Peeta watches the reunion for awhile, then his eyes begin to scan the others nearby. Could he be looking for me? And yes, he catches sight of us now - his mother, brothers and me - standing in an awkward huddle. A smile plays at his lips that I can't help but return. It's the same smile I fell in love with sixteen years ago. For a moment, he seems torn between staying with Katniss and coming over to us. After one long glance at her, he begins to wade through the people towards me.

It's slow going. Everyone wants to touch him to assure themselves that he's okay. Despite my reservations about groups of people, I can't stand to wait any longer. I too need to embrace him. With a hundred cameras trained on us, my wonderful Peeta enters my arms at last. The effect is instantaneous. His warmth, his stability that I've been so hungry for flood my mind, body, and heart. After weeks of absence, I'd forgotten just how much I missed it. After a few moments, I detect something. A slight apprehension, maybe. But I force myself to shove it aside because he's here. He's with me.

There's so many things I want to say. About missing him. About the hope he's given the district. About how, in a way, he's brought our family closer, but I just let my head rest on his curls. They are soft after spending days in the Capitol. I think a few tears might have escaped the confines of my eyes.

Reporters eventually whisk him away for interviews. But right before he's pulled away, I catch sight of his eyes. There's something unsettling in them. A fear that wasn't there before. And his smile seems somewhat forced. He catches me looking at him and gives a reassuring nod, but he can't hide it. He's in pain and I don't know why.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do know part of it. The Games are destroying to a person, especially one who's as kind as Peeta. Haven't we seen in it in the past victors? Many of them turn to drink and drug to help drown the memories. The Capitol tends to focus on the ones who stay strong, who fight the pain, but when the victors are all together or if they do a feature on some of the mentors, we get enough of the story. The past few weeks must have been unspeakable hell. I wonder how long it'll take for Peeta to piece himself back together.

I do have my son back physically, but emotionally, he never left the arena.


	25. Haunted

"Peeta, what are your plans now that Katniss is truly yours and you're both safe at home?"

"She's not going be hurt here in Twelve and that brings me all the comfort I need."

The Capitol has made good on their promise to provide the food for our district holiday. Rolls and big platters of sliced meat. Cheeses with fancy little knives. Big pots of soup sprinkled with seeds. Large, plump fruits with juice that dribbles down your hands. I've never seen so many delicacies in one place, which is saying something because I work in a bakery. Come to think of it, I've never been among so many people before either. It seems everyone in the district is here. The party seems to go on endlessly in each direction, even though we all know it's an illusion. It's satisfying to see that every bit of our frenzied preparation was worth it.

Even though he's been home for half a day and an entire night, I haven't seen Peeta at all. After the initial greetings on the platform, he was dragged away to be prepped for the evening's banquet. He spent the whole night at the fancy dinner. Regular residents weren't invited, so we all just went home for a bit. Mingled outside. None of us really knew what do when the initial excitement of their homecoming had deflated.

Another reason for his absence is the reporters. They come in like swarms and block off anyone who tries to come in contact with their prey. They hunt down our victors to photograph them, video them, interview them. Peeta's being a good sport, smiling and nodding, but I can see all he wants to do is sleep. There are large bags under his eyes and he keeps blinking rapidly. He's gone from prep to banquet to prep to party. He must be exhausted.

"Peeta, Peeta!" another reporter cries. "Tonight, you get to sleep in your new house in the Victor's Village for the first time! You'll be closer to Katniss than ever before! What are your thoughts on that? "

"Well," my son pauses for a moment. "It doesn't matter to me where she's living as long as she's not in any danger, has a warm bed to crawl into, and people around her who love her."

The reporters sigh and scribble the quote down into little notebooks. Probably that will end up on some tote bag in the Capitol.

Katniss, who's been eyeing some of the dishes hungrily and trying to dodge the cameras herself, is now brought over by a fresh mob of journalists.

Peeta smiles wearily at her approach, but even this small gesture seems restrained. The dark circles under his eyes have become more apparent suddenly. My parental instincts click into a higher gear and I want to pull him away from the crowd and order they leave him alone.

Katniss stands awkwardly next to him for a moment, then takes his arm and leans on his shoulder protectively. Her mother, who's also been hovering around, concerned, stands a little bit away. Yesterday, at the station, she told the reporters that, while Peeta was a model young man, her daughter wasn't old enough to have a boyfriend. Since then, the two victors have been a little more modest, and at times, a little awkward. Like now, Katniss doesn't seem to know how to step into the conversation.

Finally she just asks, "Peeta, have you tried the pies on that table? They're delicious."

"No, I haven't," he looks at her with polite interest. "Would you like to show them to me?"

She must have noticed his fatigue because now, she's steering him away from the reporters and towards the tables. The cameras trail them, of course, but at least the questions have stopped. I feel a sense of security because, no matter what happens, Katniss is seems to be looking out for him.

The celebrations begin to dwindle as the night grows deeper. People begin to withdraw into their houses and the music gradually lessens until there's a lone fiddler. I spot Haymitch drinking some Capitol-made liquor all alone by the corner of the road.

I don't know who gave the final authorization for our children to go home, but whoever did has my gratification. They are each handed keys and told to follow to two Peacekeepers to the Victor's Village. Katniss' family accompanies her, so I hang back. I don't know what her mother thought about Peeta's announcement of my crush on her when we were young.

The Victor's Village is about half a mile from town where the bakery is, but it feels much longer. There's an invisible border between the cinder streets of Twelve and the lonely expanse of green grass and flowers that set the stage for the grand houses. Until now, only one has been occupied. But while our victors attended their homecoming celebrations, two additional houses were dusted, cleaned, and prepared for them to move into.

As we walk under the arch, the trilling of the crickets and our heavy footsteps are the only sounds of the night. The two Peacekeepers who've been escorting our straggling party now point out the two houses.

"Right up there," one motions to Peeta. He nods his thanks, then looks sideways at Katniss. The moon is the only light we have, but it's enough to see the uncertainty in his eyes.

"Goodnight," she says, a little haltingly. Then she releases him as she heads toward the identical house across from his. Taking Primrose's hand, she guides her little sister up the steps, their mother following, and the door closes behind them. In a few moments, a light flickers on and illuminates a square patch on the road.

My son stands frozen where Katniss left him. We all just stare at each other for awhile until his brother breaks the silence.

"Hey, Peeta."

Peeta smiles. "Hey."

"So, is this where we live now?" his brother asks, eyeing the large front door.

My wife shakes her head. "It's too far from the bakery."

"But," my older son protests. "This is where Peeta's designated to live. I don't think -"

"No, _he'll_ still live here," my wife says.

Peeta frowns slowly, his face re-adopting the weary look he'd worn earlier. I don't like the idea myself. Surely, there's some way to make it work? I could wake early and go down the the bakery, couldn't I? My mind retraces our steps. The walk to town is very long, but -

"Can't we just walk?"

"It's much too far for the amount of time we spend in that kitchen. It's just not practical." My wife shrugs. "It's not ideal, but we can come visit him and he'll still be needed at the bakery. Think of it this way, in a few years, he'd be moving out anyway."

"So we're just going to leave him here?" my son asks angrily. I look around as his voice gets louder, but then I remember that there's no one to overhear us. "We barely get him back and now he's going to just stay here, all alone."

"He won't be alone! His girlfriend will be right next door. At the rate things are going, they'll probably be living in the same house before the winter comes."

"He's only sixteen!"

"Practically an adult," my wife scoffs. "You also need to be thinking about your future. In a few months, you'll probably be assigned a new house too!"

Peeta's still standing off to the side, his shoulders slightly hunched, watching the argument. To him, nothing has changed. My wife yelling. His brothers arguing with her. Our tumultuous family life has never suited him.

"Peeta," I whisper. "I'm sorry, there's just - I have to be near the bakery."

"No," he speaks now. "It's right. I'd feel selfish keeping you guys here when your life is there. I'll only be a little bit away."

His brothers each put a hand on his shoulder, just like they did in the Justice Building the day of the reaping. "This isn't like before. We can still see you whenever."

"Yeah," Peeta says quietly. "I'll see you for dinner tomorrow."

"Do you want me to walk you inside?" I ask him.

"No, it's okay."

He trudges up the steps to his new house. The light in Katniss' house goes out and I know her household is going to sleep. Peeta fiddles with the lock, then pushes open the door. In that split second, I see the Justice Building doors about to slam. About to separate me and my son.

"Wait, Peeta!" I call out. He turns, waiting for me to say more. "You go on home," I tell my wife and sons. "I'll be just a moment." Then, I climb to steps to the Victor's Village house.

"What are you doing, Dad?"

I can't put it into words. What am I doing? I really don't know. But Peeta shouldn't be forced to enter this house alone.

"Dad, really, I'm fine," Peeta tells me, starting to go inside.

"I know," I sigh. "I just… we missed you, Peeta. I need you to know that."

His eyebrows knit together, as if trying to work out what I've said.

"Go on inside," I tell him.

The unlit house has a grim feel to it. The elaborate furniture hidden in shadow haunts the corners. I almost crash into a vase of flowers as I grope about for the light switch.

"I've got it," Peeta says quietly. He flicks on the switch which immediately warms the space. But there's still something missing. It doesn't feel like home, yet. Even though the weather's still warm, the house has a drafty feel to it.

"You go up to bed," I tell Peeta. "I'll make a fire."

I hear him creak up the stairs as I kneel before the hearth. There's a neat, uniform stack of wood beside the fire already and on the mantel, I spot a box of matches. The Capitol attendants did a very thorough job getting this place ready. I've just coaxed the flames from the kindling to wood when I hear a noise behind me.

Peeta stands huddled behind me, his face washed clean of makeup and his fancy clothes swapped for pajamas. He settles himself on the couch, rearranging the pillows so that he can lie down.

"Why are you sleeping down here?" I ask him softly.

He shrugs. "It's cold upstairs."

I'm not sure that's the entire truth, and more than ever, I wish the bakery weren't so far away.

"Well, this should last you until the morning," I tell him, gesturing to the crackling fireplace. As he stretches out on the couch, his pant leg pulls back to reveal the plastic and metal prosthetic. In the orange light from the fire, the device is almost eery. My eyes can't seem to look anywhere else. My staring must make him uncomfortable because he quickly pulls the fabric back down.

"It's fine," Peeta says. "Doesn't hurt much." He stares into the flames for a long time, his eyes slowly drifting shut. I know I should be getting home, but something about the way my son clenches the blanket tightly in his fist while he sleeps keeps me sitting there.

The house is almost dead quiet except for the sputtering and occasionally hiss of a log collapsing in the fireplace. Somewhere, a clock ticks. It feels almost surreal to have Peeta on the couch just a few feet away when for so long he's been trapped in the arena.

Sometime later, he shifts a little. I've been staring off into space, leaning against the wall, but suddenly I'm alert. Peeta's eyes are moving behind their lids and his chest rises and falls more rapidly now. Abruptly, his eyes fly open, searching around frantically.

"Katniss?" he whispers. " _Katniss!"_

"Peeta?" I touch his forehead, brushing the sweaty curls away. "Peeta, it's me."

He looks terrorized as his wild eyes focus on my face. "I'm okay," he says automatically. "You should go home."

"I will," I promise. Glancing out the window, I see that the darkness is starting to lift. The loaves will need to be put in the oven now.

My son struggles to a sitting position. "Go, it's okay."

Sighing, I straighten up. "Come down to the bakery if you feel up to it."

He nods, but I have a feeling he won't come. Because there's something scarier than an amputated leg that's come out of these Games. He's haunted.


	26. Painting the Sunset

The heat of the summer slowly dies along with my faith that my son will ever heal. The Capitol could fix his every scrape, cut, and burn, but there's no way to mend a broken soul.

Peeta doesn't come to the bakery, even though I always prepare a piping bag in case he does. My wife wants me to talk to him, but every time she brings it up I dismiss the idea. He needs time. Time to recover, to process, to forget.

But if it was hard to watch him suffer on TV, it's even more difficult to let it happen here in the district. Finally, I cave and make the trek to the Victor's Village. I don't know what I'm expecting to see. Peeta sitting by the window, desolate and alone. Maybe he and Katniss are having some time away from the cameras. But what I do see isn't at all on my list of possibilities.

Peeta is painting. In the natural light of the room, he pulls the paint brush across the canvas rhythmically. Each thick coat of paint melds with the next, gradually becoming a new hue.

His brush halts mid-stroke when I enter the room.

"Hey, Dad," he says.

I'm mesmerized by the streaks of red, orange and pink swirling across the canvas. It's a sunset sky, ablaze with the final bursts of light the sun has to offer the day. It's so lifelike I reach out to touch it.

"Careful," Peeta stops my hand. "It's still wet."

"Where did you learn to do this?" I breathe, still completely entranced by the brushstrokes.

"Practice. And frosting, too, I guess. Effie sent a letter saying that I needed to pick my talent. You know, now that I'm a victor. So, I chose this."

"Well, it's beautiful. Is this why you haven't come down to the bakery?"

"Partly."

"So…" I shift uneasily. "You're okay?"

"No," says honestly. "But this helps."

The fireplace is unlit, but there are ashes from a recent blaze. I wonder if Peeta built one or if mine was never swept away. I hope that he's at least taking care of himself here.

"How's your leg?"

Peeta pulls up his pant leg to examine the prosthetic. "Strange. I miss _my_ leg."

"Does it still hurt?"

"At times," he admits. "The doctors said I might experience phantom pain." He rubs the place where flesh turns to plastic, then runs his hand down to where his calf used to be.

"At least you're alive," I tell him. He's quiet and I immediately regret my words. Searching for a change of topic, I open and close my fists anxiously. "Why don't you come home - to town, I mean - for dinner?"

My son pauses, considering. "I'll think about it."

Another silence.

"Has Katniss been over here?"

Peeta dips his brush into a dash of scarlet of paint on his palette. A little knot forms in my stomach at his lack of response. "Is everything okay between -"

"Dinner sounds good," he interrupts. There's a warning tone to his voice. I know I shouldn't press it - he seems to be barely holding it together anyway. I need to just go. Pretend that he's fine. But the father in me can't leave him like this. Instead, I place my hand on his shoulder. He shies away like a startled horse, a small noise escaping.

"Peeta-"

"Dad, just don't. Please… just… just go."

Eyes stinging from rejection, I back away. He can't help it. The things going on inside his head I can't understand- how can I expect him to want my comfort? It's survivor's guilt, I know. But the pain in his voice, the way he pushed me away - it hurts my heart to no end.

It wouldn't surprise me if Peeta doesn't show up for dinner. In fact, it's what I'm expecting. But at five, there he is on the doorstep.

"Peeta." There's more surprise in my voice than I'd like. So I clear my throat to cover it up. "Welcome-" I pause, not sure what to call this anymore. Home? I let the greeting hang in the air.

Peeta steps inside gingerly. He looks around, as if trying to reconcile his memories of the place with what he sees now. It's the first time he's been back since he left that morning of the reaping.

Dinner is a lot of small talk. The weather, the Harvest Festival that will happen come fall.

"How's this compare to the fancy house in the Victor's Village?" my oldest son asks jokingly. "Cramped, dim, and we don't have the plus of your girlfriend across the street."

Peeta looks down at his lap, his cheeks flushing.

"How is Katniss? Is that why we haven't seen much of you?" he shakes his head, a bit mockingly. "You two living together yet?"

When Peeta doesn't respond, his brother drops the matter. The subject shifts, but I keep my thoughts on Katniss. It's odd that Peeta isn't talking much about her. I'd have thought they'd be a source of comfort for each other, but it seems that they've only distanced since arriving here in Twelve. I wonder what's caused the drastic change from lovebirds to polite acquaintances, if that.

Now, a silence descends on the room as people run out of safe topics. Just when it seems that things couldn't get more awkward, my wife plows through the ice.

"Well, the cameras left town today. Saw them all pack up and pull out of here. Good riddance." She slathers butter on a slice of bread. It's strange to be eating bread that's not stale or burned. With Peeta's winnings, we can afford to get fresh food. Which reminds me-

"Peeta, I've let your mother manage your winnings. She's always taken care of the budget and I-"

He cuts me off with a startled expression. "You what?"

"I - I let her-"

"Dad, she's never once given a damn about what happens to me. And all the sudden, because I have money, she stops abusing me?"

This isn't Peeta. Peeta's voice so rarely holds that tone of controlled rage. There's resentment as he speaks, years of anger and buried pain coming through. Is this what the Games have done to him? Taken my soft-spoken, honest yet kind, son and brought out his harsher side?

"Peeta, you don't understand. She and I talked. Things will be -"

"No! No, okay? People don't change. I get that she's had it rough, but I don't want to be dependent on her. She can't come in halfway through my life and try to make things better!"

My wife's eyes are narrowed into steely slits. Her nostrils flare and I can tell it's all she can do not to fling her temper to the winds. And I know that if she's silent, it can only mean one thing. She knows he's right.

"Peeta, your mother isn't trying to -"

"She hit me." My son's voice drops to a near whisper. He closes his eyes and rests his head on his fists. The knuckles are white from being clenched. Again, we eat in complete silence.

"I'm sorry," he whispers finally. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry."

"It's okay," his brother reaches across the table to pat his back. He seems to regret teasing Peeta earlier. "We understand.

"I should probably go." The chair screeches as Peeta stands up.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Even though I already know the answer, I have to ask anyway.

He shakes his head. "Thanks, but I know the way."

"You're welcome here anytime. This - this is still your home, too." I get to my feet as well. At least I can walk him to the door.

Peeta grabs his coat - as autumn approaches, we're starting to see some cooler evenings - and starts off down the road with just a vague goodbye. I can tell by his voice that he's ashamed.

The setting sun ignites the gravel, turning it orange and red. Just like Peeta's painting.

About halfway down the road, my son stops and just stares at the brilliant sunset. The sky dances with pink and gold, the clouds turning to spun sugar. Peeta stands like a statue, his hand shading his eyes. It's not until the sun slips behind the horizon and the colors fade away that he turns and continues his trudge away from town.


	27. Just a Game

It's like our family is trying to forget the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. As September passes, we pretend they never happened. No one brings them up. Peeta doesn't talk to me about them either. In fact, he hardly talks to me about anything anymore.

 _I'm fine._

 _Settling in._

 _Yeah, it's good._

He must have a list of "safe" responses to all my questions. They are further proof that his darkest fears lie buried beneath his brave facade. If he's sharing them with someone, it's not me. So eventually, I stop asking.

Peeta does begin to come to the bakery again, which I like to think is a good sign. He doesn't say much, but I think the familiar, step-by-step process is like therapy. Baking and painting: my son's only comfort these days.

Without fail, he shows up in the kitchen every morning. He usually has paint stains on his hands and in his hair, as well as dark circles under those blue eyes. Today is no exception.

"Good morning," I say as he enters the kitchen. A rush of crisp air follows him, momentarily lifting the stifling blanket of heat from the ovens.

"Morning." He gets right to work, setting up his space. Flour. Eggs. Yeast. I mix up one dough, he kneads another. This is the one place where we're a team, even if there is a coolness between us.

It's very precise work, too. We have to make plenty to sell with enough leftover for our family. Still, when you've done it for most of your life - or in Peeta's case, all of it - you understand how to efficiently meet the day's quota without sacrificing the quality.

Around eleven, a tap at the door brings me back from the other world in which we bake. On the steps outside is Delly Cartwright. I know her parents well; they were among the few friends I had growing up. Her family lives above the shoe shop that they own just a few fronts down and Peeta and Delly have been friends since they could walk - maybe even before then. When they were much younger and my wife would go out, I'd let them into the back to make little figures from the dough.

"Hi Delly," I smile. "Your folks need something?"

"No, but they send their greetings!" She returns my smile with a warm one of her own. I like Delly for many reasons, but this is a large part of why I'm always glad to see her. Most children stick their heads down when adults talk to them - including I as a child - but she always greets everyone like they're her favorite person in the world.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually." She toys with her blonde braid. "Is Peeta home?"

I open the door wider, allowing her to come further inside. "Yes, he's in the back."

"Oh, good," she sighs. "I've been trying to catch him since he's come back! I still can't believe he's here. Those Games were the worst ones I've ever had to watch."

Nodding, I put a hand on her shoulder. I can relate. "Come on," I tell her. "Peeta will be glad you stopped by. He's been a little forlorn since he came home."

That's an understatement, but I don't want Delly to worry. I lead her back into the kitchen. Peeta looks up from the tray he just slid from the oven at the sound of our footsteps and grins when he catches sight of Delly. She's like a living piece of his childhood.

"Hey, Delly. It's been awhile."

"Peeta!" she cries. "I was so worried that I'd never see you again!"

"Well, here I am." He puts the tray on the counter and slides off the oven mitts.

"How are you?" Delly's words tumble out and over the top of each other. "I can only imagine everything that you've gone through, so I'm sure it's taking awhile to recover. But I'm so happy for you and Katniss. You used to tell me about her, remember?"

Peeta looks at the floor, as has become custom when Katniss is mentioned. His cheeks, which were already red from the ovens, burn even brighter.

Delly prattles on. That is one thing about her - she isn't very good at reading social cues. "Of course, the reasons for your getting together are awful, but I can still see you telling me that you were going to marry her someday when we were six. Seeing you two together in the cave and the way she kissed you… it made me wish that there was something I could do to help you guys." She walks over to the steaming tray and looks curiously at its contents. "What are these?"

Looking relieved at the change of subject, Peeta picks one up tentatively. It must still be scalding, but he holds it out to Delly. "It's an apple and goat cheese fritter. Try it and tell me what you think."

While Delly munches on the fresh pastry, I take a moment to analyze my son's reaction to her comments. Could he have just been embarrassed or did her words remind him of something more painful? The way his eyes hollowed when she mentioned Katniss… the way he wouldn't meet her eyes…

"It's delicious, Peeta," Delly says. He can't have expected to get a fair review from her. Delly would eat a charred piece of raisin loaf and still praise it to save someone's feelings.

"How's your leg?" she asks between bites.

Just like he did when I asked, Peeta lifts his pant leg to show her the prosthetic. "Getting better. It still hurts, especially at night when-" he trails off. "Anyway, it makes me very off-balance."

"You'll get used to it, I know you will," Delly promises. "It's lucky Katniss knew how to tie that tourniquet or you'd have died for sure. She's so good at that stuff."

Katniss again. Peeta turns back to the pastries and begins to arrange them in a basket.

"Listen, Delly, I've got to run home and finish a painting. I'll drop by later, okay?"

"I should be going anyway," she says compliantly. "I'm supposed to be helping my dad, but he let me come over and check if you were here. I'll see you soon, Peeta." Delly finishes off the pastry then dusts the crumbs from her hands.

Peeta nods, giving her a small, distracted smile. "Bye Delly."

Even though he said he was on the way out, Peeta remains in the kitchen for a long time after she leaves. He takes a tedious amount of time putting away ingredients and cleaning the space, sweeping his hand across the counter to gather the scattered flour.

Helpless. That's how I feel. I've tried to understand how he feels. I've opened myself up to him for the first time in years. And yet, here he is, struggling with some deep rooted sadness, and it's like I'm barely here.

"Peeta," I burst out at last. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

He shrugs, his eyes still fixed on the white dusted counter space.

"Was it nice to see Delly?"

This time, Peeta nods. "Yeah, she seems good."

"She's not the one I'm worried about."

"Dad, it's alright. I'm fine." If he was stalling before, now he doubles his speed, shoving the last of the ingredients onto the shelves haphazardly and moving towards the door. Unease slides out of the corners and wraps itself around the two of us like a blanket. A blanket of sin and sadness. I know that this detachment is stemmed from his trust that I lost when he was younger. He couldn't count on me before, so why should he now?

"I - I understand that I'm not a safe person to talk to -" I start out. "Listen to me, Peeta. It's not good to bottle your feelings. It's the same reason we slit the top of a pie crust. You have to let the steam escape. Even if I'm not the right person, please tell someone. Your brothers, Delly, Katniss, anyone."

His shoulder's slump uncharacteristically. "You _are_ a safe person," he says. But it sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

"Peeta, it's okay," I find myself assuring me. "I know I've screwed up. But it's still my job to look out for you and I can tell something's not right."

There's a very familiar look in his eyes. It's the same one that I see when I look at my wife. The hurt, the abandonment. He's deciding, right here, right now, whether or not he can trust me. For a moment, I have a wild urge to pull the plug. To tell him to forget it. Because if Peeta decides to put his faith in me again, then I have the responsibility of keeping it. The way things stand now, I've already acknowledged my failure. Don't have to worry about breaking him because I already have.

"I just-" Peeta begins. "Everything used to make sense. I knew where to fit in. So, things weren't perfect, but I- I think I'd take that life over this one."

I'm not quite sure how to respond. "Well, you'll learn what to do with this life. Things have changed, but surely some of it's for the better?"

My son shakes his head slowly. "I can't think of what. I've been trying and all I can remember is how simple everything was. School and baking. That was what I knew."

"I get that this is a huge adjustment, but look at it this way. You're safe from the reaping, you can afford real food and real paint, and-" I pause, unsure of whether this is the appropriate time to bring Katniss into the mix.

"You don't get it," he sighs. "No one does unless they've been in there. The Gamemakers can hit a button and you're dead. The only reason you're alive is so that they can make sport of your suffering. There's nothing worse than being unable to control the little things that you're so used to manning."

This is the first time he's spoken about the Games. Somehow, hearing his account of them increases their sadistic nature tenfold. "You're right," I tell him. "I don't understand."

"And that right there!" Peeta cries out. "See, your first instinct is to give up. But in the Games, you can't do that! Give up and you go down without a fight. You've let them win."

"But you won," I point out. "You defied the system. You and Katniss both escaped."

"Because we played the Game," he mutters.

"How do you mean?"

My son sucks in a great gulp of air and chokes on it. Eyes streaming, it takes him awhile to compose himself again. "It- it was all a game. Every word. Every kiss. Just a way to keep each other alive."

I blink, uncomprehendingly.

He becomes exasperated with my refusal to catch on. "Dad, it was an act. There are no 'star-crossed lovers'. No romance. It was all just the game of the Games the Capitol had us playing to survive." There's a bitter aftertaste to his words.

And then the weight of what he's saying, the implications, drop on my head. "Oh, Peeta. Katniss isn't- that was never - I'm sorry."

"I don't want sympathy, I want her safety." He seems to realize all he's just said. "Dad, you can't tell anyone. Not my mother or my brothers- no one. If the Capitol finds out, I don't know what they'll do to Katniss. They're already upset about the berries at the end. It was all an accident that we got out alive. Please Dad? Promise?"

I'm still trying to swallow this news. "But- she - it was so real."

"Well, that was the point, wasn't it?" He asks wryly. Then, for the first time in years, he asks my advice. "What should I do?"

"Nothing. You can't, Peeta. If what you say is true, then this can't get out."

"But it's like you said! Steam is building. I can't keep kissing her for the audience. It's like- it's like I'm using her!"

I think back to all the caresses in the cave. The way Peeta looked up at Katniss. He joined the Careers to save her, took a near fatal strike from Cato to let her get away. Is he truly that good of an actor? "Did you know?" I ask softly. "Were you pretending the whole time?"

"Doesn't matter," he sighs.

"It does too. Was it all a Game to you?"

His silence is answer enough. Katniss Everdeen. The girl Peeta's loved for years, let him think that she loved him back. "So it's not you who was using her," I say. "She was using you!"

"Dad, she kept us alive."

"And let you believe that she cared about you." I don't know why this needles me. Maybe because I so often feel helpless myself.

"She does care about me," Peeta says. "I - I felt it. She just doesn't _love_ me. I know who she loves. It's Gale Hawthorne. She couldn't kiss me without thinking of him."

I frown. "I thought he was her cousin." That's what people have been saying, at least.

"Just part of the story," Peeta shakes his head sadly. "People can't have him on her other side- it would ruin the image we've already created."

"I don't know what to say."

He scuffs his boot on the floor. "Nothing to say. Forget it, I should never have said anything. I wish I could take it all back."

"No, I - I needed to know," I lay a hand on his back. "At least now I understand where you're coming from."

"The Victory Tour is right around the corner. As soon as the snow falls, the cameras will be back and the game will be on once again. Don't you see? I'll never escape this. Katniss and I barely even talk anymore!"

"Peeta, you'll find a way to make things work. You always do."

"Not this time. It's not like dough. You can't just remold a relationship that never existed."

He gives me one last small smile, then swings open the door. On his way home to the cold, lonely house that reminds him of the fake romance he's living.


	28. Early Frost

The little bit of hope Katniss and Peeta's romance has come to symbolize is gone. Not in the district of course, but inside me. Because I know now that it was fabricated. Created for the Games. There was no triumph over the Capitol. No "love conquers all". There's just two broken children who survived the atrocity of the Hunger Games.

Here I was thinking that their relationship was the one good thing that had come from the Games, when it's very clear that nothing of worth will ever amount from this event. Peeta was right. He was better off before, when he didn't have a taste of Katniss' affections. In retrospect, it seems so obvious. Everything was just too perfect. That Peeta, who was a total stranger to Katniss, would gain his fellow tribute's affections in a matter of days. That their relationship would spark the rule change. I should have seen it coming.

Now it is I who suffers under the burden of a secret. Sometimes, someone catches me off guard and it almost slips out. But I always recover the best I can because I intend to keep my promise this time around. And so it simmers, day by day, just waiting for the perfect moment of weakness to escape.

Even though the leaves have reached the peak of their turning and their colors are striking against the cerulean sky, autumn seems to have lost its splendor. I can't get the image of Peeta slogging through this new life of lies out of my head. Why him? Why, out of all the people in Twelve, in Panem, was Peeta Mellark selected to undergo this painful journey.

October is born amidst an early frost. The district knows what that means. A freezing winter. Large snowfalls. In the past, this meant starvation and death. A long winter was a fatal one in many cases. But thanks to the Parcel Days we're entitled to as a result of Katniss and Peeta's surviving the Games, there's a shadow of possibility that we'll make it to spring.

With the onset of cold weather brings preparations for the Victory Tour. This means high ranking Capitol officials with their assistants and _their_ assistants invade Twelve to stir up the Games again. Peeta needs to be instructed on everything, apparently. What it's like in each of the other districts, how to hold himself, how to address the mayor. Even though Peeta isn't living with us, we still get a shocking amount of Capitol people showing up in the bakery. It becomes clear that the Mellark bakery is something of a tourist location in the Capitol.

They enter flamboyantly, squealing and snapping pictures, which would be fine I suppose if they didn't scare customers off.

"Sisal's going to be simply green-eyed when she finds out we got to see this," a woman says one afternoon, her wig quivering with what I assume is ecstasy.

"Shhh, don't go parading it around," her friend giggles. "We're here on business remember?"

"Yeah, right. Like you're not going to tell every person you can get to hold still long enough."

"I still want to frame a slice of this bread. It's just so _rustic._ I think the tough consistency really represents the tough life they have here."

Tough consistency? Peeta's bread isn't tough and neither is mine. We might be working with compromised ingredients most of the time, but the recipe has been in the family for decades. Thick, flaky crust, buttery soft insides. If this is tough, then their Capitol bread must melt in their mouths. I don't know whether to be jealous or annoyed.

They have no problem paying for bakery goods and we're not in need of money anyway, but as they purchase box upon box of baked items, I can't help thinking that Twelve is in greater need of the food. Besides, I'm having to spend much longer hours in the kitchen replenishing the depleted pastries.

As it turns out, though, I'm not the only one irritated with their loitering.

"If one more of those pretentious, gawking lunatics waltzes in through here, I might just murder them," my wife says one evening, violently sweeping the mud and coal dust out the door.

"It's sickening," I agree. "The whole lot."

"First they take my son and tried to slaughter him, now they act like he's some big celebrity because he won."

Did he win? Because the way things have shaken out, winning isn't the word that's jumping to mind.

My silence provokes her to look more closely at my face. "Good lord, what's bothering you?"

"Just a long day," I lie. If I told her what was really ruffling my feathers, I'd break my promise to Peeta.

"They take a lot of patience, don't they?" Who? Oh, right. She's still talking about the Capitol people. My wife gives the broom a final shake for good measure, then leans it against the wall. "And I'm tired of cleaning up after them."

"Me too." And that is the complete truth. Not just what they track in on the floors, but the mess they've left in the aftermath of the Games. The battered mess of a son that they gave back to me. I'm tired of looking at how they've hurt him.

And Katniss, too. I'm not _angry_ with her, necessarily, but I'm glad she hasn't shown up here looking to trade in awhile. I doubt I could handle it. Peeta's keeping her well-stocked with bread, though. At least, he always takes a few extra loaves when he goes home. That hurts, too. After all she's done, some part of him is still looking out for her.

Y _ou can't tell anyone. Not my mother or my brothers- no one. If the Capitol finds out, I don't know what they'll do to Katniss._

The words haven't stopped playing in my mind since he uttered them. Peeta, who didn't need a reason to protect Katniss, who's suffering from something much worse than a mere broken heart, is still looking out for the girl who's caused him so much pain.

I had my heart broken, sure. But with Katniss' mother, I never stood a chance. It was unrequited love, but nothing more. Peeta was with Katniss. She kissed him, proclaimed her love for him in front of the country. She was willing to sacrifice herself to save him. She wove a story, but for no reason other than to save herself. Peeta is convinced she still cares about him in some way, but how can he be sure? It was all a lie. Lies and falsities. Is that what our country, our way of life, is built upon now?

It's an overwhelming question. One that burrows into some far-corner of my brain and refuses to go away. So I let it stay there, nursing it when I have a quiet moment. Maybe someday, I'll have an answer.

But perhaps more pressing, is the realization that the Victory Tour is drawing upon us with every second. The act will start up again. Instead of pondering philosophical concepts, I should be worried about Peeta. How long can he play lovers with Katniss and keep his sanity? How long he can keep up this game?


	29. The Tour Begins

The dawn of the Victory Tour brings Peeta to the bakery much earlier than has become usual. By the look in his eyes, I can tell sleep has evaded him. Again. The shadows under them are juxtaposed against his pallor. He's gotten thinner since coming home and I can no longer hide my worry. Anxiety ebbs into my conversations, my thoughts, even my dreams. I myself was up at four, blaming my early rising on the bread.

This morning's air freezes before it can reach my lungs. A bitterly cold wind, the kind that chaffs at cheeks and rubs away the top layer of skin on noses, has blown down from the north. Little tendrils of frost have wrapped their fingers around the plants and windows, leaving behind their crystallized residue. It's the kind of morning that's deceptively pretty, but one foot outdoors and the cold takes the opportunity to give you a taste of frostbite. However, the cold doesn't drive Peeta inside. He just stands on the steps, nose pink and eyes watering from the wind, looking like a lost little sparrow. A young boy scared of what today will bring.

"It's okay, Peeta," I say, opening the door wider. "I made your favorite. It's on the counter. I figured we could butter up a few slices before..."

He nods, his breath creating little white clouds as it escape his lips. Ice crystals cling to his hair, strategically woven among the strands like diamonds. Once we're inside the kitchen, the oven lends its warmth, but I still feel a chill. It gnaws its way past my skin, burying right into my bones. I absentmindedly rub the gooseflesh crawling on my arms.

Peeta deftly slices the bread. With each stroke of the knife, another piece of the textured, nutty loaf falls away. Perfectly even. Impossibly uniform.

"Peeta, it's not like before. You're coming back this time."

My son nods. "Yeah," he sighs. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"

"Katniss," I finish for him.

He lays down the knife and rests his head in his hands, massaging his forehead as if it could erase the creases. The weeks of dreading this day are culminating in a slowly swelling panic. Like a balloon slowly filling with air; it's only a matter of time until it bursts.

"You're worried you'll have to pretend to love her again?" I ask, feeling my own chest contract with dread at the idea.

He raises his head, now, looking me straight in the eye. "I do love her! It's not that at all. I'm worried I won't be able to make it look like she loves me back."

"But," I pause, trying to work it out. "That's _her_ job, isn't it?"

Peeta gives me a wry smile. "You would think."

The sky's lightening now, the grey of dawn getting fainter as the sun peeks over the horizon. The tour leaves in just a few hours. Usually, District Twelve is the first stop. We never have any real kind of hospitality, so best get us out of the way. But this time, we aren't the remote, forgettable district. Twelve is the finale, the last stop on the tour.

The Harvest Festival is one of our most treasured holidays. It's always celebrated on the last day of the Victory Tour, usually consisting of a meal with family and friends. Maybe not even that if money is scarce. It's the one time of year when I allow myself to bake one special loaf to share that's neither stale, nor burned. A perfect, fresh loaf for our family.

But this year, everything will be different. The Festival will be public with Capitol-provided food and entertainment. Everyone will get a meal and a night of celebration, not just the well-to-do. I'm not sure how I feel about it. The Capitol coming in and "revitalizing" a tradition. Even if families couldn't afford a real meal, the Harvest Festival was always a time for thanks and warmth. A quiet affair will be turned into what the Capitol assumes is a celebration. Grandiose. Loud. Bright.

Before that though, our victors will have to travel to all the districts. Endure the speeches. Pretend to enjoy it. Having lived through years of the Games, I know what it's like to see the victor who may have personally killed one or both of our tributes here. You don't see the winner - only the faces of the children we'd lost. It's one thing to be the one doing the comparison, but son will be the object of their sadness and anger now. Somewhere, there is someone wishing that he'd died and their child had lived. In some ways, this tour might be as emotionally damaging as the Games.

"Look, it's not long." I don't think I can stand the thought of my steady Peeta being miserable for another second. "You'll be back home before the weather has a chance to think about getting warmer."

"And then what? I come back here, hide away from the cameras, and then it's time for the Games again."

"The Quarter Quell." It just slips out. I'm supposed to be reassuring him. Not reminding him of the hopeless future.

The effect is instantaneous. The little color the warmth of the bakery brought to his cheeks drains away and his eyes widen. "Dad, don't. I can't, not today."

"What time does your prep team come?" I ask, wishing I'd never brought up the Quell.

"Soon. They'll be aghast at how thin I've gotten."

So he's noticed. When he looks in the mirror, does he see the effects worry has started to have on him? He must. I could care less about what his prep team thinks, but it seems to matter to him.

"I wish I could be there. Be a familiar face," I tell him. Despite our differences and tentative bond, just knowing someone's on your side can be a great comfort. Katniss used to be his beacon of hope, but that light's long been smothered.

"Portia's good," Peeta says. How odd that he's the one consoling me when the opposite should be true. "She'll be with me the whole time so you don't have to worry about me being lonely. And besides, they'll air the whole thing live. You won't miss a minute of it."

Just then, the door opens. My wife strides into the kitchen and I immediately try to work out her motives. It's not until later that I wonder why that's my initial reaction. Usually, she's come to scold. Her face doesn't seem angry, though. There are the lines of resentment, of course, but her eyes lack the smoke that signals a fire.

"Hey," Peeta bites his lip, flinching a little at her approach.

It takes awhile for her words to become a reality. "I- I came to say goodbye," she says at last, gruffly. "And - good luck, I guess."

She too knows what it's like to celebrate the person who was responsible - either directly or indirectly - for your children and your neighbor's children's deaths.

Peeta looks taken aback. He wasn't expecting this, surely. Then, cautiously, he nods. "Thank you."

"Just remember…" his mother trails off, her lips trying to figure out what else she wants to say. "Remember who - you are when you're out there. The other districts may not be the most compassionate, but - but Twelve is on your side."

And then she's gone. In that moment, I realize just who she is. Broken beyond repair. So scarred and damaged by life that she's hardly recognizable. Yet, somewhere, there's a part of her that remains. That was her way of telling our son that she's on his team in the best way that she could manage.

Peeta stares after her, and I can almost see the gears turning. Does he realize the significance of those few, rough words? How long it probably took her to work up the courage to do that? I hope so.

"That was awfully preachy, was it not?" A bit of his old, dry humor surfaces for just a moment.

"She's doing the best she can," I tell him. I'm quick to defend this small brave act. It was so uncharacteristic of her brute nature.

"What if I'm not good enough?" The question falls from his lips so quickly, so out of context, that I can tell it's been troubling him.

"You mean you're worried you can't make Katniss like you?"

"It's going to be so much harder this time because I know how much it hurts her to be kissing me. How can I make myself look head over heels when she's forcing herself to respond?"

"Peeta, I'm not good with words," I sigh. "I can't make you believe in yourself or inspire you in any way. All I know is that Katniss Everdeen has you looking out for her. Just… let it play out." The words sound choppy and pre-rehearsed. If only I had my son's gift. I could comfort, motivate, and empower him effortlessly. Instead, I have a few short sentences with nothing behind them. How inspirational.

"I'll see you at the Harvest Festival."

I give him a quick hug, then release him out into the frigid morning. The Victory Tour. Such an ironic name for game where there are no true victors.


	30. Unrest

Something is wrong.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but weird things have been happening. For one thing, our broadcasts of the Victory Tour are choppy. We lose feed for no reason, which wouldn't normally be a cause for concern - we've always had sporadic electricity - if it weren't for the fact that the Victory Tour is usually promoted loud and clear. It's a way of making the pain of the Games fresh yet again.

As the tour progresses, it's also becoming clear much of the footage has been edited out. Occasionally, we catch glimpses of a shaky camera, a disturbance in the crowd, before the media skips to a different, more placid shot.

Peeta and Katniss are still playing lovers, of course. Maybe it's just because I know now that it's contrived, but I'm almost sure there's something desperate about the way they kiss and dance. Which is quite frequently, much to our family's discomfort. They attend parties and galas and rallies, the whole time clinging to each other like ivy on a trellis.

The romance doesn't entirely cover up the jagged footage and hasty editing of this year's tour, though.

"What's going on?" I ask one night when the broadcast turns to static almost before Katniss can finish her speech. "What's with the turbulence in the airwaves lately?"

My wife glances at me quickly.

"What?" It's not usual for her to be holding information from me. Usually, she jumps on the opportunity to point out how uninformed I am.

"Well, there's been talk-" she stops, busy picking at a loose thread in the fabric of her shirt. "Lately, in the marketplace, rumors have been flying. About uprisings."

"About what?"

"Rebellions. Uprisings. People are unhappy with -" she lowers her voice, "with the Capitol."

"Haven't we always been?" I can't remember a time when people here weren't angry with the Capitol. I mean, their idea of fun is watching children kill each other.

"It's just rumblings of course, but there's been talk of taking action. Peeta and Katniss - they've given us a reason to fight."

"Us? Fight?" I ask incredulously. "People are mad. The Capitol's too powerful. We'd all be blown to dust before a single shot was fired."

"Well, those same people argue that the Capitol needs us to survive. We stop supplying them…" she shrugs.

The conversation's all wrong. We saw what happened the last time people started thinking like this. "The last time we rebelled, it only brought us the Hunger Games," I remind her.

"The last rebellion failed," she spits back. "This whole thing with the berries is stirring people up. If we can overthrow the Capitol, there won't be any Hunger Games at all."

"So people want to organize something here in Twelve?" The thought fills me with fear. And, why not admit it, some exhilaration too. Could we really be free of the Games? To not fear the reaping year after year? No more killing children for sport.

"I don't think there's anything in the works," my wife says. "It's all talk. Talk, talk, talk. Really, the same stuff that's been going on for years. But I guess Peeta and Katniss have given people a symbol."

"So, do you think it's happening in the other districts too?" I ask. Peeta and Katniss may not be from their district, but their love story might have gotten some people further convinced of the Capitol's satanity.

My wife shrugs. "It explains why they've been so _concise_ with their programs. If they're worried we might band together, they wouldn't be too quick to show us the other districts, would they?"

"I don't know. It seems like a long shot. There could be a perfectly good explanation. There could be tech issues in the Capitol or maybe…" I trail off, unable to come up with anything logical. The Capitol has the best technicians on their hands and their pick of anyone in the districts, particularly three.

"Exactly. You don't have to believe me. I'm just relaying information. You watch next time they air something. Look at the crowds."

The thought of rebellion consumes me for the rest of the day. I used to hear about the Dark Days when I was younger. My parents were either very young or not born yet, but _their_ parents lived through it first hand. Apparently, those days were just as dark as everyone said. Dark enough to earn them the title. It wasn't like the nagging fear of hunger, but the kind of terror that only comes hand and hand with death. Every step outside was equivalent to a funeral march. You lived in fear. Fear of your loved ones dying. Fear for yourself. Is that really what people want to create again? I promise myself to look at the crowd next time I get the chance and hopefully, impossibly, put these suspicions to rest.

Fortunately, it's a very short time before the opportunity presents itself.

District Eight. So unlike our little mining district. Large, industrial factories blot out the skyline. The smoke that chugs from the tops clouds the air and it hangs heavily over the crowd gathered to celebrate the victors.

The cameras are spending an abnormal amount of time showing the backs of people's heads. My son and Katniss come out on stage. A strong, young woman gives a speech in their honor. They respond with words whose meanings have long been stamped out by memorization. The script is listless, the farthest thing from inspiration. If this is what's moving people to want to take action, then I'm really at a loss.

And finally, we get a few short shots of the faces in the crowd. Fury. Passion. Elation. That's what's behind those eyes and written on their faces. Peacekeepers that ring the square seem to be having trouble keeping this crowd contained. They strain forward, each person looking at our victors with such hunger. The kind that can only be satisfied with Capitol blood.

"You were right," I tell my wife. "Did you see their faces?"

My wife looks a little smug. I really should stop doubting her. "The districts are unhappy. People can only be contained for so long before they begin resist. Control doesn't sit well with our species."

"Do you think it'll happen? A revolution?" I ask her quietly.

"Good heavens, I don't know. This could fizzle out within a week."

"But you don't think so."

Her face confirms my fears. "No," she says matter-of-factly. "I think people are powerful, especially when united. If I were the Capitol, I'd think very carefully about their actions. Anything we can use to bring ourselves together, we will. It doesn't have to be much, but one tiny flare and rebellion is ablaze."

"But those speeches," I protest, determined to find one flaw in the theory. "You can't tell me that those speeches were inspiring in any way."

"That's the point, isn't it?" she says, annoyed that I haven't grasped it. "The Capitol doesn't want them to do anything inflammatory. They think maybe, if the speeches are dull, it'll quell the crowd."

"Nothing will quell that," I say. The images of their underlying anger are still fresh in my mind's eye.

 _People can only be contained for so long. Control doesn't sit well with our species._

So how long will it take for the restraints to burst and the wall of seventy-four years of resentment to come crashing down? Then, a scary thought occurs to me. "If Peeta and Katniss are instigating thoughts of rebellion, they could be in serious danger." Suddenly, I want more than ever for the tour to be over my son safe here in Twelve.

"Only if things progress," my wife says calmly. "Like I said before, it's still just talk. A whisper here, a hint there. It's more of a mood than anything else. Unrest."

"The gateway to revolution," I say aloud to no one in particular. A revolution could be much more dangerous than the Games. It won't just be children dying. The Capitol will want to strike down every rebel they can get their hands on. We know from experience they don't mind bombing entire districts off the face of the planet. The arena will be everywhere if one erupts.

And then, Peeta pops the question and all thoughts of rebellion are shoved unwillingly away.


	31. The Proposal

Marriage was the least of my worries until now.

Peeta and Katniss have reached the Capitol at last where it's clear the Games left a lasting impression. Banners and signs ripple in the breeze. Our victors wave from parade floats, make appearances at fancy halls and mansions. If they were playing up the romance in the districts, now they're erotic. Kissing, holding hands, leaning into each other. The actions all get kicked up a notch, clearly playing to the audience's adoration. By the time they reach their interview with Caesar Flickerman, they've almost exhausted the whole "crazy in love" thing.

"Now Katniss, you've just come off a marvelous trip through all the districts and, after the party at the President's Mansion, the final stop is home. What can possibly be going through your head right now?" Even the most mundane questions sound interesting in Caesar's hands. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"

Probably that and more, considering that the districts are on the verge of rebelling. A nightmare within a nightmare. But of course, Katniss can't say that on live TV.

"Well, Caesar," she says. "Things have certainly been -" she hunts around for a word, "a ride!"

The audience laughs.

"And Peeta, what can you say about the tour?" Caesar smiles warmly. "The parties, the banquets, were they as grand as they looked on TV?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'm the right person to tell you, Caesar," Peeta gazes at Katniss before continuing. "My eyes were stuck on the prettiest thing in all Panem."

Katniss blushes and Caesar puts a hand to his heart.

"How sweet, how _sweet,"_ he mutters. "What has been the most memorable part?"

Katniss and Peeta glance at each other now.

"The people," Katniss says at last. "And the food."

I'm sure it has something to with the unrest she felt while on tour. After all, Caesar never specified memorable as being good or bad.

"Of course," Caesar laughs, oblivious. "Now, folks, I'm sure you all saw how fabulous Katniss Everdeen looked while on tour. We must have seen you in a thousand different dresses! We know that your apprenticing your stylist and learning to design. Were they all Cinna's doing or was there one you helped create?"

Katniss laughs. "Well, Cinna is just wonderful. He can turn… silk into anything. I - I helped with a few, but there was that orange one in District Eleven. I was definitely a part of that design team."

Where did this bubbly Katniss come from? She's been "in love" through most of the tour but today she's almost mad. I notice Peeta looking at her a little strangely too. He also seems a little nervous, which is odd considering he's usually the camera favorite. Katniss hardly said a voluntary word at their final interview last year.

"Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, you two are perhaps the most relevant love story of our time," Caesar continues. "Do you know how much you've inspired us to hold on to what we love? So young, so inspirational. What does the future hold for you?"

Peeta takes a deep breath, then drops to one knee. The crowd gasps collectively. My own heart plummets into nonexistence.

"Katniss Everdeen, you already know how I feel about you," Peeta says. "No speech, no amount of words could ever describe my love because words fade away. They disappear, but my love is undying. It doesn't matter where we are. In Twelve. In the Capitol. In the arena. You're always on my mind and I can still taste your kisses on my lips. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Please, Katniss. Will you marry me?"

The Capitol audience surrenders to hysteria. People are on their feet, cheering, crying. Caesar looks like he's on the verge of tears himself. The camera switches to shots of the districts, seemingly besides themselves with joy. Everyone in the country just watched my son propose to a girl who he knows doesn't love him back and they're celebrating. Granted, I'm the only one who knows about their little act. Well, me and Peeta. And it was in his eyes just then. A flash of pain that only a father could be keen enough to detect.

Katniss gives him a smile that I wish I could believe is real. "I will, Peeta. I'll marry you."

As the anthem plays, I stare without seeing. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse for them, the whole thing becomes more twisted. I didn't even think it was possible. My son, not even of age, is being forced into marriage. Because that's what it is. The choice is marry Katniss or suffer the consequences. Be in love or expose the fact that the whole thing was created for the Games.

My wife's muttering obscenities under her breath. "The boy's not even of age." she snarls finally. "This is sick."

"The country doesn't seem to be bothered by it." As if to prove my words, the camera makes another round to the overjoyed districts.

She dismisses my disgust, waving it off like a fly in the summer. "Oh, they don't have a choice. In fact," she pauses, her mouth curving into a half smile.

"What? What is it?"

"This is the worst thing the Capitol could've authorized."

How'd she come to that conclusion? Our youngest son will be forever bound in a marriage that isn't real. Peeta, so young, so deserving of happiness, will never know true care and love.

"Come on, Mellark," my wife says. "Think it over. This marriage is the first step to unify the victors. And once the victors unify, the districts will follow. Don't you, this is happening at last? People tired of being treated like scum. We might actually have a say in our future!"

The idea of a rebellion seems to kindle some of her old luminosity. There's a gleam in her eye that I haven't seen in years. And of course the idea of ridding the country of its suppressors appeals to her, my wife who's never known justice. Unfortunately, I can't join in her titillation. The country feels more removed than the cruel, disgusting turn of events that is taking place on the screen at this very moment. A rebellion in the future, maybe. But Peeta is engaged now and worse, the Capitol is _celebrating._

Our President himself makes an appearance to congratulate the couple. After grasping Peeta's shoulder and going so far as to embrace Katniss, he settles down the impassioned crowd with a hand. "What do you think about us throwing them a wedding right here in the Capitol?" he asks them. He's met with another roar of applause.

Caesar Flickerman, who's still dancing with excitement, composes himself enough to resume the interview. "Do you have a date in mind, President Snow?" he asks cordially.

"Oh, before we set a date, we better clear it with Katniss's mother," President Snow says good-naturedly. He must be referring to her reluctance at the rapidly escalating romance on the train platform. I wonder what she thinks about this now. If she thought a boyfriend was crossing the line, getting engaged steps way beyond that.

Peeta is quiet, standing next to the president respectfully. He's smiling, of course, but it's not the same smile that I know. It doesn't light up his face like it does when he's truly happy. Katniss, on the other hand, seems to be besotted with joy. She giggles and exchanges playful banter with President Snow, almost as if they've had many pleasant encounters. I wonder what's brought on this unusual burst of enthusiasm. Could she truly have some sort of excitement about the wedding? Then why did she freeze Peeta out?

After the interview comes arguably the most extravagant party of the tour. Held in the banquet hall of the Presidential Mansion, the starry ceiling, floating musicians, gardens, plush sofas, and walls upon walls of delicacies. My mouth waters just looking at some of the dishes.

Peeta and Katniss are crowd favorites of course. The camera follows them as they have their picture taken and exchange cordial words with high ranking Capitol officials. They spend an unproportionate amount of time on the romance stuff. Now that they're officially engaged, there's nothing inhibiting the media from going all out.

Katniss shares food with Peeta, they kiss, they dance. She in particular seems to be more vibrant than I've seen her all tour. I can't for the life of me figure out why all of the sudden she's shifted. Peeta is a bit more subdued. At least he doesn't seem practically intoxicated. He hardly ever leaves her side, though, which must count for something.

I realize with a start that the tour's almost over. Tomorrow, they'll have a final banquet. Even though it's here in Twelve, we won't be invited and so probably won't see them until the following night at the Harvest Festival. But after that, the country will move on the the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games.

"Aren't people getting sick of this angle already?" I ask as Katniss and Peeta lock lips for the umpteenth time tonight.

"Well, they keep us focused on this shallow stuff hoping we won't stir up trouble," she says. "It's revolting, isn't it?"

"I think the country is forgetting how young they are. We've made them symbols but have forgotten they're people."

"Cut the sermon," my wife rolls her eyes. "The country is in desperate need of something happy. Look at them, young love is the epitome of youth and innocent joy."

Of all things on my list of words that describe Peeta and Katniss's romance, innocent is not among them. It's built upon the framework of the Games, then embellished with deceit. Strategic, sadistic, inhuman. Those words, maybe. But innocent?

My wife also seems to be taking a different stance on the issue than she did initially. What happened to the "this is sick" attitude?

"I thought you were repulsed by this sudden engagement," I tell her.

She shrugs. "It might help bring the districts together." So she thinks that if it'll help the rebellion, it's a worthwhile sacrifice. For whatever reason, this idea of a revolution is really getting to her. I haven't seen her this lit up about something in a long, long time.

"This rebellion idea," I say slowly. "You're really into it aren't you?"

My wife scoffs. "I just think it's high time we speak up. Stop standing for what we've been letting happen for seventy-five years. "

Seventy-five years of the horror of the Games. Seventy-five years we've let the Capitol take our children. Maybe she's right. That no sacrifice is too great if we gain our freedom.


	32. The Harvest Festival

The Harvest Festival transforms our grubby little district into a scene straight out of the Capitol. Little lights are strung up around the square and bunches of corn husks tastefully accent the place. Of course, there are still the same age-worn buildings that no amount of decor can hide, but for once, there's really an air of _festivity._

People dress in the cleanest clothes they own, which is a little painful because most people only own one or two nice pieces that they wear for all formal events…including the reaping.

The square is crowded with people milling about, eating and talking. If any meal screams Harvest Festival, it's the one the Capitol has provided tonight. Creamy pumpkin soups, apple tarts, and thick stews. There is squash and beans and corn, all presented in alluring display of appetizing art. The weather is the only thing that's not compliant. There's a bitter chill to the air and people bundle in sweaters and jackets to cut the wind. At the far side of the square, a group of fiddlers play an upbeat tune and many people have struck up the folk dance that goes alongside it.

I stand a little out of the way and sip a flask of hot cider to warm my insides, waiting for our victors to be presented. Not exactly on the outskirts, but not in the swing of things either. My wife and two other sons melded into the crowd a long time ago, drawn in by the unusual atmosphere. But I just can't bring myself to celebrate tonight.

Ever since the announcement of Peeta and Katniss's engagement, there's been an intense fear rooted away somewhere inside me. The knowledge that our simple, peaceful life here in Twelve may be about to change manifests in my dreams at night. It will be such a relief to have Peeta home again. Perhaps his steadiness will help to wash away these fears.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games," Mayor Undersee announces suddenly. "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark of District Twelve!"

The doors to the Justice Building swing open to reveal our victors who are met with a great wave of applause. They are dressed in lavish furs, which are both stylish and practical considering the weather. Katniss has on a fur coat and woolen scarf draped expertly around her shoulder. Her dark hair is in its usual braid which she fiddles with absentmindedly. Peeta stands beside her, his fitted cashmere coat hugging his figure. Thanks to the rich food he's been eating on the tour, he no longer looks so emaciated.

They descend into the crowd, accepting people's congratulations and embraces. The scene is remarkably similar to that of their original homecoming.

Peeta catches sight of me and gives me a nod of recognition, but doesn't beeline for me. He just stays by Katniss, differing to her wishes. Like I could tell that he was in pain the night of the proposal, I understand now that this is not just for the audience. For whatever reason, he needs Katniss's presence more than he needs mine right now.

So he doesn't come over to greet me until Katniss drifts my way as well.

"Hey Dad," he says.

I ruffle his curls without thinking about the cameras. He ducks tactfully away, but I know he's glad to see me nonetheless.

"Hello, Katniss," I say, rather stiffly. I don't know of any recent developments in their personal relationship, but she's now my son's fiancée whether I like it or not.

She greets me, but is obviously distracted. Her eyes search the crowds, flitting from face to face.

"I saw your sister over there," I tell her, thinking that's who she's looking for. "Your mother, too."

Peeta is studying Katniss carefully. The cameramen are over by the food. They must have gotten sidetracked by the almost visible scents.

"What is it?" he asks in a hushed voice.

She shakes her head. Either she can't tell him or won't. It must be the answer that Peeta is expecting because he just sighs. I was expecting the same bubbly Katniss we saw onscreen a few nights ago, the one who giggled and was sociable. But this girl's eyes are unfocused and no amount of makeup can hide their shadows. Really, it's exhausting to try and figure Katniss out every few minutes. I wonder how Peeta can put up with it.

But he doesn't seem frustrated or impatient with her lack of forthcoming. He speaks to her very gently, like someone speaking with the mentally ill. "Do you want to go find Prim?" he asks softly, laying a hand on her fur-covered shoulder.

"I'll be right back," she promises. The cameras catch sight of her wading through the crowd and trail after.

"What's up with her?"

Peeta's eyes warn me not to say anything else. "The place looks great," he says. "The Capitol knows how to put on a party."

I don't want to engage in small talk. There's so much I want to say to him. About the engagement. About the injustice of it all. About the unrest in the districts.

"Dad," he says, a measured tone creeping into his voice.

I can't say anything too direct, not here. So I start with a seemingly innocent question. "How are you?"

"I'm alright." Peeta seems to understand what I'm getting at. "A bit tired."

"And," I glance around to make sure the cameras are still on Katniss. "How are things between-"

His eyes widen and he cuts me off. "Not here!" Peeta hisses. In a much more pleasant voice, he says, "Yes, the Capitol was wonderful."

"More so than Twelve?" I play along even though I already know the answer.

He shrugs. "Nothing can surpass the comfort of home."

The rest of the festival slides along to the tune of the fiddles. Knowing that I can't speak properly with Peeta until it's all over makes the night a bit more arduous, but I'm the only one not completely entranced. The festival has put everyone else is in really good spirits. Laughter peals across the square as people fill their bellies with the rich fare. It seems that every time a dish is running low, more appears from nowhere. Is this what it's like in the Capitol? And endless supply of parties and delicious food? Don't the galas lose their special feel if you attend them every night?

As Capitol standards go, this probably isn't an extravagant party at all. But for District Twelve, this is the holiday of the decade. People have never been so satisfied. It's amazing what full stomachs can do for the attitude. As much as it's nice to see people in such good condition, the best part comes when the crowd begins to thin and the music dies down.

When Peeta and Katniss make their final rounds and are cleared to return home, I offer to walk with my son. At last, we'll get to discuss things of worth. Out of pure paranoia, I wait until we're inside his house to speak.

"So, how was the tour?" I ask, still being careful to keep my voice down even though there's literally no one to hear.

Peeta shrugs, the fatigue beginning to creep into his features. "A strange kind of awful." He kneels at the hearth and begins to build a fire.

"And… the proposal…" I start awkwardly.

My son shakes his head. "Just part of the act. Means nothing."

"Then why was Katniss so lit up by it?"

"Search me," Peeta stokes the small flame until it blazes up, immediately warming the space.

"You're mother and I were - did you know - unrest, Peeta. The districts are thinking about rising up." It all tumbles out.

"Yeah, I know." Peeta settles himself heavily on the couch. "I think I'll sleep here tonight. Maybe finish a painting."

It's his way of dismissing me, but I'm reluctant to leave. "But Peeta-"

"At least she's talking to me again," he cuts me off. "We're on better terms now. Really, it was a mutual agreement. It's going to be okay."

This is news. It's true, Katniss and Peeta did look a bit more natural tonight. That at least, relieves some of the pain I've been carrying.

"So, you're friends again? Is she over Gale?"

Peeta shakes his head. "You don't understand how Katniss works. She's not an easy read. Most of the time, I have no idea what she's thinking or feeling. I do know that she loves Gale in her own, fractured way, but she loves me too."

"Peeta, you keep saying that, but she's given you almost no energy. How can that still be -"

He sits up straighter, giving me a harsh look to stop my words. "Katniss cares about me. I don't need any fancy words from her to know that. At the parties and on TV, it's an act, but at night when we're sleeping -" His face burns red in the firelight and he ducks his head.

It takes a moment for me to catch on to what he's saying. "You - you guys - on this tour - you slept together?"

"Not like that," he assures me quickly, still blushing like there's no tomorrow. "We just- she gets these awful nightmares and wakes up screaming. It's better when I'm there to calm her down so…"

"And she let's you?" I can't hide my shock. That enigmatic, stormy Katniss Everdeen would ever let my son share a bed with her. Especially when they've just recently rectified their frozen relationship.

He avoids meeting my eyes. "She asks me to."

On the walk back from the Victor's Village tonight, I try to understand if this new piece of information makes me feel about differently about the engagement. They're still much too young, but it seems I was wrong about them being indifferent towards each other. That must be why Peeta slept on the couch tonight. The bed upstairs was just too lonely. At least he'll have the fire for company.

The images of lonely, saddened Peeta now get brighter instead of darker when I think of Katniss. Maybe they don't love each other in the way the country thinks they do, but I guess they need each other. Really, it gives me hope for tomorrow.

I couldn't be more wrong. Because in less than a week, the square that looked so lovely the night of the Harvest Festival is no longer a square at all.

It's a torture chamber.


	33. Blood on the Whip

"Is Peeta coming for dinner tonight?" my wife asks the Sunday morning after the Harvest Festival.

"He said he was." I glance at the clock. The bread should be done by now.

"Then I'll get some stuff for dinner." She pulls on her coat. When the door is opened, the house drops twenty degrees as the rush of frigid air swirls into the hall.

"We're low on cinnamon," I call after her, wishing she'd close the door.

"I'll see if I can pick some up."

Things have been pretty quiet since the Harvest Festival. Now that the Victory Tour is over, the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games are officially behind us. For obvious reasons, these Games felt a whole lot longer than they usually do. But now, finally, we're in a brief period of calm. The children of the districts are safe until the weather thaws out. I can almost believe that Peeta will be okay. He's been much happier since coming home from the tour, and while his eyes occasionally hold a haunted look, he could be the same boy I left on reaping day.

The snug comfort of the bakery is wonderful now that the weather has gotten so cold. The black mottled snow lies hard packed around the houses and streets of Twelve and I expect we'll get more soon. Winter has always been a difficult season for our district. More people dropping from starvation, a general sense of hopelessness. Even if we do have food every month from the Capitol now, the days are short and with darkness comes despair. Nothing good happens when the light goes away.

I'm used to spending long hours in the bakery by myself. I've always prefered solitude to multitudes of people. But it seems the quieter it is around me these days, the louder my fears. According to my wife, the tension is growing. Winter may smother the fire a bit, but come spring… could things really ignite? Right now, the Capitol is supplying us with food. But when the weather defrosts and our days as the winning district dwindle, will we really detonate the words and point our aggression towards the President? My wife thinks so, but then again, it's what she's hoping for. I don't see how she doesn't worry night and day what will happen to our family should the rebellion break out. Peeta is one of the most recognizable faces in Panem now. Surely he'll be punished first if we start any kind of resistance here. Is she really willing to take that risk, to pin all that on our son? And the older boys. What will happen to them? They could easily get killed in an uprising or riots. The possibilities are never ending.

By noon, I'm drowning in anxiety, my thoughts bubbling up around me like water. Rising higher and higher until my breath is ripped from my chest. There can't be a rebellion. It's too dangerous. I can't guarantee my family's safety. In the vague world beyond my mind, I hear someone calling me. I surface from the raging waters of despair and realize it's my wife. I leave the kitchen, searching for her voice.

"There you are," she pants. Her face is flushed and she's short of breath. There's something in her eyes that I don't see very often. Fear.

Something dreadful has happened. Everything I've been worried about crashes over me. What could have possibly scared my wife who's so past being frightened of anything? I grab her arm, shaking it a little. "What's happened? What's going on?"

"It's - it's the Head," she pants. "The Head Peacekeeper."

"Cray?"

"No, they've got a new one. I don't know when he got here or where he came from. But it's not pretty out there."

"Out where?" I need to know. "Are our children safe?"

"They didn't show up with a dead turkey, did they?"

"Just tell me what's going on!" I'm beginning to panic, fingers of terror clutching at my chest.

"They're going to whip him," she says at last. "Dragged him to the square. He showed up with a turkey and they're making him confess now. They'll whip him senseless."

My heart stops and so does my ability to breathe. Before Cray took over the district, whipping used to be common practice. I remember the sound and all that it implied. As kids, we used to run and hide until the moans stopped and we were sure the victim had been carried away. A sick feeling washes over me, but I have to ask. "Who is it?"

"The Hawthorne boy," she says breathlessly. My wife is very pale, almost green. I've never seen her like this. "Katniss's cousin."

"He's not -" I start to say, but quickly stop. She doesn't know that, of course. To cover up my blunder, I say the other thing that's on my tongue. "He's still a boy!"

"He works in the mines, so he's of age," she reminds me. "And poaching carries such severe penalties."

I want to tell her that he's been hunting all his life. That we've eaten his and Katniss's kills. That they used to provide us with all our game before Peeta won. But I just pull on my coat and make for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"To the square."

She takes my arm, holding me back. "No, stay here. There's nothing good coming for him. Nothing we can do."

How strange this is. For her to be the one holding me back. Usually, I'm the one who wishes to stay, who knows there's nothing to be done.

"I just need to see for myself. I won't be long."

The cold nearly knocks the wind out of me. I hasten to the square, arriving just as the first lash comes down on the back of Gale Hawthorne. He cries out, blood already rushing from the place where the whip sliced his flesh. The turkey that incriminated poor Gale is nailed to the same post that he's bound to. The man standing over him must be the new Head Peacekeeper. His chiseled jaw is clenched with concentration as he brings the whip down again. The crowd is thick enough to hide me from sight, which is good because I probably look horrified.

"How many lashes?" I croak to the woman standing next to me.

She shakes her head. "Didn't say. Thread just tied him up as soon as he pleaded guilty."

"Thread?"

"The new Head."

In no time at all, Gale's back is raw and bloody, as are the stones beneath him. With each lash, he gives out another strangled, helpless cry of pain. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. After about twenty lashes, a redheaded Peacekeeper steps forward.

"That's enough," he says, grabbing the Head's arm. Instead of lowering the whip, Thread brings the butt of it down on the man's head. He crumples to the ground and the Head Peacekeeper delivers another blow.

Another ten lashes and Gale goes quiet. I think he's unconscious. All that can be heard is the whistling of the whip and the intake of breath as it makes contact. Every time it comes down, a spray of scarlet follows, speckling Thread's white uniform. Gale's flesh is so mutilated, so ripped apart, that it's nauseating. This is way past a "corrective punishment".

I find myself wishing someone would help him. Step forward and force Thresh to stop. But when someone does make a stand, it's the last person I want.

"NO!" Katniss rushes forward, throwing herself in front of the Head Peacekeeper. She takes the lash meant for Gale to her face. "Stop it! You'll kill him!" she's shrieking.

If she's here, so is Peeta. I look around for him, silently willing my son to stay hidden. There's nothing any of us can do now and Katniss has just made things ten times worse.

Haymitch strides out into the open now, stumbling on the Peacekeeper whom Thread bashed earlier. He inspects Katniss, then angrily addresses Thread about photo shoots and wedding dresses. I'm barely listening because I've just spotted the blonde curls in the crowd. I move over and grab his arm.

"Peeta, stay here," I hiss in a low voice. "You'll only get yourself in trouble."

He starts, looking at me like I've appeared from nowhere, which I guess I have. "Dad, let go!" He tries to wrest his arm from my grip.

"I don't care if she blew up the blasted Justice Building!" Haymitch is snarling in the middle of the square. "Look at her cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?"

"Peeta, you'll only make it worse for them. _Stay here,"_ I plead.

My son's face is angry as he twists his arm. "They'll hurt her!" he whispers harshly. "Let me go, Dad! This isn't your fight!" He rips his arm from my grasp and pushes through the crowd without a second glance at me.

"He was poaching," Thread says in the middle. "What business is it of hers, anyway?"

Peeta reaches Katniss, taking her arm. "He's her cousin," he says firmly. "And she's my fiancée. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us."

My brain is foggy. Surely Thread will pull out his gun and shoot them all down right here, right now. I was just trying to protect him, to keep him from the cruelty of this new Head. But it doesn't seem to matter because as he stands defiantly before Thread, he's publicly announcing his willingness to confront authority. My son's making himself a target.

There's dead silence in the square. Peeta's face is set in rigid lines of determination. Katniss cups her cheek as blood trickles down her pale face. Haymitch stands between Thread and them. If a shot is fired, it will go through him first.

Finally, a female Peacekeeper steps forward now, interrupting the tension. "I believe, for a first offence, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad."

Thread considers this. "Is that the standard protocol here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well," the Head Peacekeeper barks. "Get your cousin out of here, then. And if he comes to, remind him that the next time he poaches off the Capitol's land I'll assemble that firing squad personally."

 _If_ he comes to. As the crowd begins to disperse, I gulp in as much air as my lungs will hold. Peeta's okay. He wasn't shot and neither was anyone else. Katniss looks very wobbly as she grapples with the ropes that bind Gale. Peeta gently moves her aside and cuts the ropes with a knife someone passed him. The woman at the clothing stall sells them her wooden countertop and they use it as a stretcher, hoisting Gale facedown onto it's rough surface.

The square is emptying quickly as people disappear into their homes. Shamefully, I follow their retreat. Peeta's okay now and he's right. This isn't my fight.

Back home, my wife waits anxiously by the front door. The moment I walk in, she pounces. "I'll only be a minute?" she says, mocking my earlier words. "You leave me here to just _wait_ and wonder whether you got yourself killed?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to worry," I tell her heavily, hanging up my coat.

"Didn't mean for me to worry? They just whipped an eighteen-year-old for the first time in years and then you disappear into the square? What the hell happened?"

I've never seen her this worked up.

"Well, you could have come and seen that everything was okay. Well, no it wasn't. Gale's pretty beat up. Peeta and the others are carrying him to Katniss's mother now."

"Peeta? He was there?"

"Of course he was. Katniss stepped forward to defend Gale and got a lash to the face, so of course his next move was to shield her."

"Stupid girl," she mutters. "Why can't she hold her tongue for once? And Peeta, too. They could have both been killed."

"It look like it for a moment. Why didn't you come?" I ask her. "You never stay back."

"What did I care?" my wife waves her hand dismissively, but her voice is much higher than usual. "Just a whipping."

"Fine," I tell her. I'm not in the mood to force out the reason. Peeta's words still ring in my ears. I should have stayed. Made sure Thread didn't come back or follow them. I turn towards the kitchen, dragging myself back down the hallway.

"My brother was whipped once." It comes out barely above a whisper. My wife has her back turned to me. "Broke curfew. I was sick and the home refused to give me medicine. My brother snuck out to the apothecary, hoping to trade the few coins he'd saved from working in the mines for some kind of relief. He was older than I was and couldn't stand to see me suffer. They caught him. Twenty lashes was his punishment. They made me watch. They made us all watch as the whip sliced open his flesh again and again. Because he tried to help me. I was only fourteen."

In the dark hallway, I swallow hard. No wonder she couldn't stand to see Gale whipped. Her brother must have been around his age.

"Afterwards, I went to the apothecary myself and begged them to heal his back. The lashes left deep trenches in his skin and we were so malnourished as it was. The man was busy but he sent his daughter to help. Katniss's mother. She arranged his ragged skin and he was able to go back to the mines within a few weeks. That was the year that he -" her voice catches, "the day that he was reaped."

I remember that day. It was overcast and the clouds were heavy with moisture. When they called his name, he'd walked bravely up those stairs and shook hands with the girl who'd also been reaped. I knew my wife, then. She didn't cry, but her face had gone very, very pale. I remember the way her eyes followed him into the Justice Building. As they swung shut, it began to rain. The clouds were crying the tears she'd withheld.

"That was the year that it rained," I whisper. "I remember thinking the droplets were the cloud's tears."

"He knew he wasn't coming home," my wife says in choked voice. "He knew. He tried to be strong, for me. I got time to say goodbye. He hugged me. Promised that he - that he loved me and that he'd be back." Her voice breaks and I know she's crying. "But he didn't come back. He broke his promise and left me at the home alone. It was so cold without him there in the bed and I remember refusing to eat for a long time. Hoping that I could join him on the other side. I'd come into our little room that had just one window that he'd always open to let more air in. I would almost expect him to be there, still black from the mines, but smiling. But no one was there but that old grey spider in the corner. The home didn't even seem to miss him and we had no parents to mourn him. It was just me. It wasn't his fault. He'd never fought before. He was barely eighteen and hadn't worked in the mines for more than four months. In training, he made an alliance with the Careers. But - but they never intended to keep it."

It's true. Her brother had spent the days of training tagging along with the pack, trying to get into their group. They'd finally made a temporary alliance. And then, as soon as the gong sounded, they'd turned on him. Backstabbed and put a knife through his heart. He wasn't Career material. It turned out their "alliance" was a plan to eliminate a weak tribute.

I know now why my wife was so curt at Peeta's farewell. It brought back too many memories. Her brother's goodbye. His promise to return. The loneliness of the home. So dark, so cold. She was just a little girl with no family left at all. And now, that little girl stands before me. Sure, she's grown up, but nothing's changed. She doesn't trust promises or people.

"They took the one person I had left," she sobs. "He was all I had. And I bet he'd be so disappointed if he saw who I am today. He always tried to keep us honest. Only broke rules when it was absolutely necessary."

"He wouldn't be disappointed," I tell her, moving closer tentatively. "He'd be proud that you never gave up. His _is_ proud, actually. Because he's watching us. I know he is."

"I don't know. Maybe he is."

And when she finally lets me put my arms around her, she lets the heartache overcome the anger for the first time. My shirt is wet with her tears when she finally pulls away.


	34. A Missing Person

I was right about the coming snow. It falls in thick, wet flakes without letup. The wind makes visibility next to impossible and it seems to find every loose board and crack to sneak through. There's almost no point in baking bread for the bakery today because no one's going to come in this blizzard. But baking helps me take my mind off of my troubles, so I wind up in the kitchen anyway. The swirling whiteness outside leaves me to understand the significance of the whipping. Things are going to be very different here in Twelve from now on.

And the funny thing is, I'm not dead terrified like I'd thought I would be. Because this is what I've been fretting about all along. There's no more "ifs" and "maybes". The cards are on the table, even if it's a rotten hand. I know that this new Head symbolizes new times. This crackdown is surely meant to stifle any thoughts of rebellion and so far, it's working. Look how quickly people left after the whipping. We've realized how powerless we are in the face of the Capitol. _I've_ realized what a dastard I am. Leaving to save my own skin. Thinking only of myself and how ashamed I'd feel facing my son who was once again braver than I.

So the days pass. We hole up inside, keeping the doors and windows shut tight, the fireplace blazing, doing everything we can to fight the mounting conditions. By the time the clouds have conquered our streets and houses, Twelve is literally buried under ten foot drifts. The untouched, white surface glitters, reminding me of the Peacekeeper's equally pristine uniforms. It's not a good comparison. Everything that took place before the blizzard returns full force. Peeta blatantly defying authority. Gale's flogging. Thread. Due to the snow, I haven't seen Peeta since the square. I wonder if he'll drop by once the roads are cleared or if he's still angry with me about trying to hold him back.

My wife's the one to tell me about the new developments. A whipping post, stockades, and a gallows. She went out early this morning to get some necessities from the public market. Apparently, Thread's wasted no time in creating means of punishment. She also tells me that the black market has been burned to the ground. It seems that District Twelve will be entirely reformed by the time spring comes.

"The mines are closed, too," she says, shaking her head. "I guess the rumors of rebellion here reached the Capitol."

"Does that mean people aren't going to resist?"

She shrugs. "Right now everyone's too scared to leave their houses. This blizzard gave us a good reason to stay indoors, but I don't think anyone's in a hurry to step out of line after what happened to the Hawthorne boy."

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of these torture tools right outside our door. We'll know about every single person who passes through their horrors. It's almost longingly that I think of the house in the Victor's Village, far away from the moans and cries sure to come.

Much to my surprise, Peeta and Katniss do drop by a little later. She purchases some cakes, but I think it's mostly to give Peeta some time to talk to me. It's not like it matters. We don't discuss Thread's new tools or the whipping. Nothing of worth. There's still a coolness when he addresses me and I know he's still upset. I was only trying to protect him, but I've disappointed my son once again. Well, I'm almost used to that feeling now.

"Crazy weather, huh?" Peeta says stiffly.

"Yeah. Everything okay where you are?"

"Sure. The houses in the Village have nice insulation. Do you think we'll get anymore snow?"

I shrug. "I don't see how there's room for another flake."

As the days pass, a general feeling of panic begins to manifest. Not because of the stocks or the whipping post, although they see plenty of action, but because of the food shortages. I take back anything I said about us making it through the winter. District Twelve is starving. It seems that every child is signing up for the tesserae, even some of the merchant kids which is unheard of. The problem is there's just no one buying. People are reluctant to leave their houses most days. By trying to squelch the talk of an uprising, the Capitol has created a much larger problem that I doubt they even care about.

I begin to feel guilty about the money our family possesses. We have handfuls of it, much more than enough, and the district is utterly famished. I see the children's skeletal faces in the windows before their mothers pull them away and draw the curtains. I stop charging for bread, letting folks take one loaf until the day's supply runs out. Not even my wife makes a comment about this because she's seen the shaking hands and gaunt faces of our neighbors. Parcel Day, which was supposed to be our saving grace, arrives bringing spoiled food that's infested with other hungry vermin.

And yet, Thread still finds every reason to punish our starving people. Every time I hear the sound of the blasting hose with its powerful stream of water hitting the stones of the square, I know the Peacekeepers are washing away the crimson bloodstains of another victim of the whipping post. Twelve can't take this much longer.

Peeta still comes to the bakery in the morning. He's the only person who isn't completely miserable. He knows, of course, what's happening. He understands why we bake twice as much bread for no cost. But something is sustaining the glow in his eyes and I have a nagging suspicion that it has something to do with a certain girl who wears a braid in her hair. To think that just a few months ago, Katniss and Peeta were barely speaking to each other and now, they're the only people in our district with life left. Yes, Peeta is definitely okay, more than okay.

So it's only natural that I'm much more concerned about Twelve's state than I am about Peeta's - that is, until two Peacekeepers show up at our door looking for him.

My wife glances out the window when they rap on our door and her face hardens. "It's Peacekeepers," she says and hurries to open it.

"Are you the legal guardian of Peeta Mellark?" the female asks. No greetings. No pleasantry.

"Yes, I'm his mother, but -"

"We're requesting to speak with him. If he is home, he is required to come forth. We have a few questions regarding Katniss Everdeen," the female's partner says. He stands rigidly, ignoring the bitter cold that descends upon our warm bodies like vultures.

I step father into the light, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. "Peeta isn't here. He lives in the Victor's Village."

"Who are you?" the woman demands.

"I'm his father." I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. What could these two Peacekeepers want with Peeta and why have they come here? They said they needed to ask him questions… about Katniss. I may not know what they expect to hear, but I do know Peeta. He'll never do anything to condemn her, even if it means convicting himself. "But, why have you come to us? Peeta hasn't been here at all today."

"We've already checked his designated residence and it was vacant. We are required to check all possible locations before marking him missing as well."

As well?

My wife sniffs. "He's probably off somewhere with his fiancée."

The woman raises her eyebrows, challenging my wife's cool tone. "Katniss Everdeen has not been seen all day. She was reported going beyond the fence at an early hour this morning. We do not know who else she brought with her or where she went."

"So you think my son might be with her?"

"At the very least, he may know where she's gone," the woman says. "But since he cannot be located, his status is the same as hers."

"Give them at least until sunset," my wife cries, "before you go bringing in reinforcements and it's discovered the two of them were off picnicking for the day."

"In this weather?" the man laughs humorlessly. "The fence surrounding the district is charged and it will be charged every day, twenty four hours, from now on. If they are outside the boundaries, they will not be coming back in undetected."

I'm reeling. Could Katniss and Peeta really have left the district? For good or just for the day? Katniss goes into the woods all the time, but now, with the fence on, she won't get back in so seamlessly. I'm sure she's gone into the woods, but would Peeta really have gone with her? And what will happen to them if the Capitol finds them on the other side of the fence like they're bound to? Are they important enough to pardoned or will punishments be inflicted? A sickening feeling arises in me as images of Peeta and Katniss being whipped until their backs are bloody, raw slabs of mutilated flesh flash before my eyes. But instead of losing it, I surprise myself. "Have you checked Mr. Abernathy's place?" I ask in a low voice.

"Mr. Haymitch Abernathy?" the woman repeats haltingly "Why, no, we weren't -"

"Before you send out a search team, check there. I know Peeta and Katniss have been spending a lot of time there." I have no idea if that's true. Haymitch is so drunk most of the time that I doubt he has much company, even from our victors, but it's enough to buy my son more time to appear.

The two Peacekeepers glance at each other, trying to decide whether to take my suggestion into account.

"Dad?"

Everyone turns to see Peeta, standing at the door to the kitchen. The smell of baking bread follows him. There's a hint of kind of spice. Dill, maybe. And cinnamon, too. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier. I've just finished -" he stops abruptly as he catches sight of the Peacekeepers. I can see him trying to piece together the situation.

The first feeling to register in my brain is relief. Because he isn't beyond the fence. He can't be convicted of leaving Twelve if he's standing right here. But as the Peacekeepers get over their disguised surprise, I also feel a little anxious. Peeta is still in hot water, even if he isn't outside the district. He'll be picked clean until they're certain he has no idea where Katniss is.

"Peeta Mellark," the woman says. "How long have you been here?"

"I came through the bakery door about five minutes ago." He gestures backwards towards the kitchen. "I was supposed to help my dad with the bread this morning, but -"

"So, you haven't seen Katniss Everdeen at all today?" the man interrupts.

Peeta's face turns steely as he comes forward, standing in front of me to face the Peacekeepers. "No, she wasn't home."

"And when was the last time you saw her?"

"What's happened?" I feel Peeta tense beside me. "Where is she?"

"Mr. Mellark, we're going to need you to come with us," the female Peacekeeper says. It takes me a moment to realize he's talking to my son, not next

"No," Peeta says. "Not until you tell me what's going on. Where's Katniss?" There's genuine fear in his voice, laced with defiance.

"Katniss Everdeen disappeared into the woods early this morning. If you know of her whereabouts, we're demanding that you tell us."

My son stands taller, folding his arms. "How do you know? Maybe she's in the market? Did you _see_ her going under the fence?"

The female Peacekeeper narrows her eyes. "Mr. Mellark, I'm asking the questions here. Do you know where Katniss Everdeen is?"

"She's not in the woods," Peeta says automatically. "She's not beyond the fence. The snow's too thick to even walk where it hasn't been cleared."

"Someone reported a figure crawling under the fence early this morning," the woman insists doggedly.

"So? That could have been anyone," my son says.

"Katniss Everdeen is the only person who regularly presses the borders of this district. We've already checked and Gale Hawthorne is at home."

"But you don't -"

"Mr. Mellark!" the Peacekeeper barks, her voice rising. "We're not asking your opinion. We want the facts."

"I don't know where she's gone, but I can guarantee you she's somewhere here in Twelve," Peeta tells the Peacekeepers in a measured tone.

"We'll see about that. Please follow us."

My son swallows hard. "Where are we going?"

The man looks very put out by that fact that his possible witness is interrogating him when the reverse should be true. "We're going to Katniss Everdeen's designated home in the Victor's Village where you will await further questioning. And, because your father was so kind to bring up the close relationship between Katniss and your mentor, we will be bringing Mr. Abernathy along too."

Great, so it's my fault that Haymitch will be dragged into this.

"If what you say is true," the man continues. "And Katniss isn't outside the fence, then she will surely be home for dinner. We have a message for her from Head Peacekeeper Thread. Believe me, we want her to show up as much as you do."

Peeta bites his lip. He no choice but to be marched down the steps and along the road. Just before he rounds the bend, he turns and glances back at me, his lips moving.

"What?" I call after him.

"Take the bread out of the oven!" he calls over the wind.

I nod. The message is clear. Pretend that everything's fine. Continue about business until something truly happens. Forget the fact that my son is defending a girl who everyone knows is guilty. If a figure went under the fence this morning, it's without a doubt Katniss Everdeen. The question is, what form will her punishment take?


	35. We're Being Watched

Nothing.

That's the amount information I receive. No word. No updates.

I spend the remainder of the day and long into the night thinking about Katniss Everdeen. Trapped on the other side of the fence. Waiting for someone to find her and put her under arrest. None of the options are pretty and most of them have me worried out of my mind. She's been such an important part of Peeta's happiness recently. I don't know what he'll do without her.

The morning arrives before sleep does and my heavy eyes refuse to read the recipes correctly. I have to throw out an entire bowl of dough due to my carelessness.

Mixing. Still no word. Surely if they'd been arrested, I'd have heard something, right? They aren't being whipped or hung because the square is vacant, but maybe they've been taken elsewhere. Kneading. Don't think about the other possibilities. There are plenty of logical explanations. Peeta wouldn't leave me in the dark, though. Why haven't we heard?

The sound of the door opening sends a plunging feeling racing through my stomach. Could that be more Peacekeepers? Who are they looking for this time? But the footfalls aren't heavy enough and in a moment, the firelight is reflecting his golden curls. Peeta enters the kitchen, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and leans up against the doorframe. I stare at him, unable to speak as a thousand unutterable questions pile up on my tongue.

"It's okay," Peeta rubs his eyes. "Everything's fine."

" _What_?"

"Yeah, we're all fine." He massages his temples. "Katniss came home. Apparently she slipped and fell on some ice."

"On ice?" It doesn't make sense. The explanation doesn't account for the unprecedented amount of time she spent mysteriously unlocatable. I was beyond positive that she'd been in the woods. She should be there now. How could she have gotten through the fence without being electrocuted to death? "You - I don't understand," I bleat pathetically. My son's here. He's actually standing in front of me, not cuffed, not beaten bloody, and not accompanied by Peacekeepers. "What happened? Did they hurt you? Were they just mistaken? How'd Katniss get over the fence? I thought-"

"Shhhhh," Peeta looks around nervously. "Come with me," he says in a low hiss that can barely be heard above the roaring fire.

He pulls me outside and starts off down the road towards the Victor's Village at a languid pace. Seeing him, I'd think he was just out for a morning stroll. After a brief moment of bewilderment, I hurry after him, forcing myself to match his stride even though my brain is telling me to bolt. When we are far away from town, Peeta stops and begins talking very quickly. The blue shadows under his eyes match those of the wintery sky.

"Listen, Dad, we're not safe. The Capitol is listening to our conversations, watching us. Katniss _was_ over the fence yesterday, at least I'm pretty sure. I don't know how she got back over so don't bother asking. She's injured. Badly. Broken heel and bruised tailbone. She's been in bed, so we never got a chance to talk in private. The Peacekeepers knew that she'd gone into the woods, though. If they'd been able to prove it, this conversation probably wouldn't be happening right now. Thread won't let her slip through his fingers again."

The earlier questions melt away, leaving me with the all too familiar feeling of having been sucker punched. "What are you saying, Peeta?"

"It's not safe anymore. You can't say anything you want. Our house, the square, it's all bugged. My phone and Katniss's are being tapped. You have to tell the rest of the family, somewhere away from town, so that they don't say anything dangerous."

"Dangerous? Katniss couldn't even whisper what happened? You said she was injured?"

He huffs, exasperated. "Yeah. Came home last night with a broken heel, I told you that. But did you listen to what I just said? We can't talk anymore, even in the bakery. It's not safe."

My eyes water from the cold as the realization sinks in. "Why's the Capitol watching you?"

Peeta shakes his head. "You know why. They think we're the instigators and they will nail us on anything they can, no matter how thin. You have to keep your mouth sealed. Can you do that?"

I nod. It's not like I have a choice. I've never had to worry about saying something wrong in public because I usually keep to myself. But at home, in the bakery, is the one place I can actually say what I'm feeling. My safe haven is no longer safe, in fact, it might be more dangerous. One slip up, one loose set of lips, and Peeta could be in serious trouble. For the sake of my son, though, I try not to let my dismay show. "What did the Peacekeepers do? Once she came home?"

"It was getting late. They weren't going to wait much longer. Everyone was getting really nervous, even Haymitch though he tried not to show it. And then she stumbled through the door. We all played it off like we'd been expecting it all along, but I doubt our acting skills were all that." He shrugs. "The Peacekeepers tried to find some sort of evidence, but they just couldn't."

"And so, they just walked out?"

"What other choice did they have?" Peeta blinks a few times. "Haymitch and I stayed for dinner and then, Katniss needed to rest so I took her upstairs. She looked completely drained. I don't know what happened out there, but…" he trails off with a shake of his head.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" It doesn't look like it. My own eyes feel weighed down and I think it's safe to bet he feels the same way.

"Not much. By the time she got home, it was already pretty late. And then.." He scuffs his boot against the ground.

"And then what?" I'm genuinely curious.

"She asked me to stay with her for awhile, so… I did."

Why am I so impossibly bad at reading clues? Now I've embarrassed him. "You, you don't have to tell me things like that if - if you don't want to."

He shakes his head, wearily waving off my concern. "No, it's fine. Not much of a secret anyway. She was drugged - sleep syrup - so there wasn't anything going on. I just watched over her for a bit until her mother made me go home."

I want to ask more. Their relationship is such a mystery to me. I can't separate their camera relationship from that of their confusing personal one. "Is she - is she different, really, than the girl she is on TV?" I've never asked this before, but it slips out before I can decide whether it's a good idea.

"Yes. I mean, no not really. It's still Katniss onscreen, she's just… I don't know how to explain it. There's times when it's her. Like when she made a speech for Rue in Eleven. But mostly, she's following a script. Unscripted Katniss is darker. More secretive. More _exhausting_ in a way," he laughs.

"It seems like she only lets you in when it benefits her." As long as we're being honest with each other - and from what Peeta says, it may be the last chance we get to really talk for awhile - then I might as well voice my concerns.

Peeta is quiet, which isn't a good sign. He doesn't have a counter. Yet he still finds a way to defend her. I don't think that girl truly understands just how devoted my son is to her. If she hadn't shown up last night, Peeta would have gone down defending her.

"Katniss," he clears his throat. "Katniss doesn't really understand how to do people. She has this tough exterior that's really hard to break. When she's hurting is the only time that her guard is down and that's when she needs someone to protect her. Because every other time, Katniss can take care of herself. She's done it for years and it's one of the things I - well, I like that about her. I've always lived on bread and off you guys. She's been the head of her family for years. I don't know how she does it."

I process what he's said. "So you still think she loves you?"

"No," he says. "That's too straightforward of a term. She's very good at hiding her emotions, so when she's inhibited, I get to see what she really feels. I don't think she knows what to think about me. Our relationship has always been corrupted by the Games. If it weren't for them, we wouldn't have even become friends in the first place."

It's a lot of pretty words, but I'm too tired to decode them. Simply put, I think he means that Katniss needs him in her own primitive way. The fact that he's vetted me as safe enough to confide all this in sends an upsurge of happiness through my chest. I notice that the sky is much lighter now as the sun climbs higher in the sky.

"We should probably head back," I tell Peeta. "I'm already behind on today's haul."

"Do you ever get over loving someone you know you don't stand a chance with?" he asks suddenly.

"I'm really not the person to answer that question, Peeta," I start to say, taken aback by his straightforwardness.

"But you are," my son insists. "You loved Katniss's mother. And you got over her. How?"

Now it's my turn. He wants me to weave a speech full of metaphors and deep, heartfelt meanings. He wants reassurance that things will be okay. I lick my lips, knowing full well that I can't deliver. "Peeta," I begin to say. "My - my case was so much different than yours. Yes, I loved Katniss's mother, but I never felt the way you feel about Katniss."

"How do I feel?" he asks me. "Really, how is it different?"

"You just told me that Katniss needs you."

"I didn't say that necessarily -"

"But it was implied," I tell him gently. His face is red now and it's not just from the cold. I guess he didn't realize how much he let me know. "I never felt that Katniss's mother cared about me in any way. It was a crush, a fantasy that I would nourish in a quiet moment, but nothing more. She loved someone else."

"And Katniss… she's got something with Gale. Everyone knows it. She's been close with him for ages. She - she has a level of trust with him that I won't ever be able to match." A hint of jealousy creeps into his voice.

"Maybe you don't have to. Can you tell me, straight and honest, that Katniss loves Gale Hawthorne?"

"In a way," he says. "But I'm not quite sure how. I don't think she knows herself which is why things get so awkward."

"Then it's not comparable to my childhood infatuation. There was no doubt who Katniss Everdeen's mother loved."

"So," Peeta pauses. "What do I do?"

"Nothing." I shrug. "Keep doing what you've been doing. I mean, you two are getting married, so it's not like she has a chance with Gale anyway."

And I've done it again. Said the perfect thing to ruin the moment. My son's face becomes miserable. "I hate it," he mutters. "I hate that I'm the reason she can't have what she wants."

"Maybe she wants you. Peeta, did Gale stay with her last night? Did he calm her down on the train?"

"No, but that's different." Peeta's eyes shine with concealed pain. "You didn't see her after his whipping. She slept right next to him, their cheeks almost touching. I'm a stand-in, someone to comfort her when he's not there."

I don't know what to say to that because, a little bit, it's what I've been saying all along. But I stop myself from agreeing and try to think about one time that Katniss really needed Peeta. There's only one person who's been positive that Katniss cares for him and he's standing in front of me, doubting his previous words. "You've always told me that she cares for you. Always defended her, wrong or right. I think that goes a long way. All you can do is be open to her, just like you are with me."

"Thanks, but that's a lot easier said than done."

"No one said love was easy."

He nods, yawning suddenly.

"Peeta, go home and get some sleep," I tell him.

"No, that's alright. I'm going to bring some cheese buns over to her place today. I doubt her mother will let her get out of bed."

He walks a little ways ahead of me as we make the trek back to the bakery. It's a lot of information to take in so early in the morning. It's not even ten and I've already been convinced of my son's arrest, then had him show up without sleep but otherwise okay. I've had the same son tell me that my own home, the place where I'm usually safe, is now anything but. I'm not even going to begin to try and sort out our most recent discussion. It's like that little daisy game I used to play.

 _She loves me, she loves me not._ Two petals would float to the ground and join the pile of scattered others. _She loves me…_ another petal. _She loves me not._ Petal after delicate petal would be removed until all that was left was a gangly, bare stem and a final conclusion, which however childish, decided your viewpoint.

Peeta is playing the game in his mind, trying to decipher Katniss's every move. But whether he's left of on "she loves me" or "she loves me not" I may never know.


	36. Prisoners in Our Home

Alone is a foreign feeling now. Just because I'm not in the presence of people doesn't mean I don't feel watched. Invisible eyes haunt me from behind and I get into a shameful habit of checking the corners before going to bed. I always leave a light on the hallway just in case. Even in the bakery, I'm reluctant to close the door. Somehow it just seems much too confining, too much like a prison cell. There's a few ragged holes in my cheek where I've bitten it to stop the words I shouldn't say. At dinner, I'm oddly silent. Just eating my soup and only talking to cut someone off. It's my job to keep the others conversations from straying, too, because I've yet to tell any of them. It's not like my odd antics go unnoticed though. My wife watches for a few days without comment before her tongue gets the better of her.

"What are you doing?"

I whirl around from the curtain I'm holding. Just a moment ago, I was certain I'd seen a shadow of a person slinking along the wall.

"Nothing. Closing the curtains," I stammer, knowing how stupid I looked just now.

"You were looking behind them." She raises an eyebrow.

I probably should tell her the truth. Actually, I should have told her a while ago. But every time I try to come up with a good reason to leave town, the words jam up in my throat. I glance outside. The dusk is growing, but there might be just enough light to permit a walk.

"You've been acting very strange lately. What were you doing just now?" my wife demands again. "Looking for ghosts? I'm not going anywhere, so why don't you save time and spill it."

It's true. She'll probably find some way to force it out of me if I don't volunteer the information willingly. So I cock my head outside, hoping she gets the hint. Her only response is that of confusion. "Why don't we go for a walk?" I say at last. "The sky looks really pretty tonight."

"It's cloudy -" she starts to say, but quickly clams up when she catches the look in my eye.

"What is it?" she keeps asking. "Where are we going?"

I don't trust myself to answer, so I just make good pace down the road. Finally, she grabs my arm and forces me to stop walking. "I'm not taking another step until you tell me what's going on. Drag me outside in the frozen dead of winter, why don't you, and then stay quiet!"

I guess this is far enough away, but now that we've reached this point, I find myself stalling. "Nice evening," I say.

"For the love God, what is the point of this?"

"Keep your voice down," I tell her. "We can't talk so carelessly anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"Peeta informed me about this couple days ago. I - I haven't had a chance to tell you. We're being watched. By the Capitol. He figures they're bugging our house, his, and the bakery, too."

"And you haven't told me?" My wife doesn't seem to be in the same silent stupor that the news put me in. In fact, her voice is quickly rising in indignation. "Just didn't have the time, huh? Oh by the way, dear, we may or may not be under constant surveillance so keep your bloody mouth shut!"

"I'm sorry! I just couldn't find the right way to tell you! It - it's not that big of a deal. I mean, we just have to be a bit more cautious. We have nothing to hide, so-"

"Not a big deal!" When she laughs, it's high and cold. "Oh sure, sure not a big deal at all. I'll just check behind the curtains every night and creep around the house like a spooked fox. Maybe you have nothing to hide, but there are others in this household that aren't so compliant with the Capitol's wishes!"

It takes a moment for me to understand what she means. "You- you're keeping something?"

"Not exactly." She's still very affronted, which is to be expected. "You've heard me talk about the rebellion. I'm not exactly a loyalist, am I?"

"No." There's a long, heavy silence. "I'm sorry," I say at last. "I should have told you. I just didn't know how."

She gives a little humph in response.

"Look, Peeta just said -"

"See that's the problem," she interrupts. "You and Peeta have this little inside communication. Just because you bake together doesn't mean you can keep secrets. Especially when they involve the rest of us!"

"It's not like that at all," I try to tell her. Because it isn't. If she thinks that Peeta and I put our heads together and discuss the deepest, darkest fears and ideas, then she's wrong. Most days, I can barely get him to tell me how he's really doing. This whole thing was a fluke. He let it slip.

"Then what is it like?" my wife demands. "I know I've done our children wrong. I understand that they don't trust me, but that's why I have you! You're the one who's good with people and children. If I can't count on you, I can't count on anyone!"

That's an overstatement. I'm awful with people and the only reason Peeta has any tentative trust with me is because we're similar in many ways. Every time I think we're making progress in our relationship, I do something to screw it up. Still, I feel badly about keeping this from her for so long. And I can't pretend there aren't other things I haven't been completely honest about. "Look, things will be better now. I promise to keep you fully informed from now on."

"What are you talking about? Things won't be better. By standing up to Thread at the Hawthorne boy's flogging, Peeta has made it clear he's willing to defy authority. That's what's brought this on, right? We can't just shut up forever. Something's going to happen, someone will say something - I don't want to be a prisoner in my own house!"

"Neither do I, but what choice do we have?"

"Make it clear we're not the issue. If Peeta wants to stand up to authority, that's all fine, but why should they watch us? If they think he's old enough to have a house, then he's old enough to make his own decisions. Let him do what he wants, but it shouldn't affect us!"

"Just a moment ago, you were all willing to admit yourself to the rebel cause!"

"And I can't do that if the Capitol's breathing down my neck, can I?" she spats. "Yes, I want a rebellion. There, I said it. But a rebellion doesn't start because a few adolescents disobey. It's got to be all of us." There's a nasty snarl on her face and I'm startled by this sudden change. I thought we'd worked through this. I thought I'd finally understood where she was coming from. But it seems we've reverted to old time. By lying to her, I've summoned the fire-breathing beast.

"I don't want to argue with you," I say, trying to defuse the situation. Unfortunately, she's not really a "forgive and forget" kind of person.

"Then you need to start acting like part of a team. You can't just suppress the information because it scares you! You think that if you don't acknowledge it, maybe it will all just go away. But I've dealt with the Capitol my whole life. It won't just dissipate, no matter how hard to you try. The only way things will change is if we make a stand."

"I'm not scared," I say defensively. We both know that's a lie.

"Oh, please," she snorts. "And it's okay. A lot of people are. But we have to unite and keeping secrets is the first way to bring us down."

"Okay, I get it. It won't happen again."

"It better not."

We trudge home in silence. She's still fuming at not being notified, so I give her some space. My thoughts wander to Peeta. Apparently, he was supposed to be fitted for a suit today. I wonder what Peeta makes of this fuss about the wedding. Certainly he doesn't like that it seems forced, but what about the outfits and the food? He likes Portia, so the prep can't be all that awful. I make a mental note to ask him about it tomorrow morning.

If only I'd known how little time I'd have that luxury.


	37. The Quell

After our heated conversation, I'm careful to relay everything to my wife in one way or another. Of course, it's a little strange having to come up with excuses to walk away from town every time, but we manage. Our exchanges are still brief and chilly, but at least she's talking to me. The monotony of living in such controlled conditions wears on both of us. To be constantly walking on eggshells, worried about saying the wrong thing, it's almost a relief to collapse into bed where I don't have to agonize over what I should or shouldn't be saying. Even words seem to cost something these days.

"Seventy-thirty," my says one evening. The weather's started to warm up some, much to the relief of everyone in Twelve. If there's anything worse than the way people are feeling right now, it's feeling this way in the dead of winter. "Mandatory programming starts now."

The television begins to beep and the seal appears.

My oldest son, who's just dropped by (he and his brother both moved to their own houses this winter), raises an eyebrow. "Again? Feels like we've had one every night since the last Games ended."

"Yeah, well, they can't have anything _that_ important to say, right? More of the same propaganda." The truth is, most of the Capitol broadcasts have been trying to subdue the districts. They've begun showing old, graphic Dark Days footage and shots from the past seventy plus years of Games. I think it's safe to say that while the resistance was stamped out here in Twelve, it must still be growing in the other districts. We wouldn't know because that's the other thing the Capitol makes sure we don't have; any communication to the other districts is highly regulated to prevent almost any outside connections.

"Hello, I'm Caesar Flickerman," the program begins. I brace myself for another show of Capitol power.

"I see him more than I see my own family," my son shakes his head. "Seriously, how do Capitol people have time for this? What do they _do_ all day?"

Tonight's show's taking place in front of a standing crowd outside the Training Center in the Capitol. A shiver runs down my spine as I recall seeing shots of the building on television during the Games. When I was convinced Peeta was going to die.

"As you all know," Caesar is saying. "Our very favorite couple, victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, are nearing their wedding day. And because we just never could stay out of their affairs, the citizens of the Capitol have taken it upon themselves to dress the bride, along with some help from a very special guest."

Katniss's stylist from the Games is introduced and Cinna launches into an explanation of wedding dresses, fabrics, and designs. I can't help thinking about the amount of time he had to design the dozens of wedding dresses that went through various stages of voting. While Twelve was starving, freezing, and being abused by the Peacekeepers, these Capitol people were voting and betting on a wedding dress.

"And it's all come down to these six," Caesar says dramatically. "So, of course, before the final one could be decided, we sent Cinna out to District Twelve."

"I had Katniss try on all the finalists," Cinna promises. "And believe me, she looks ravishing in every one. You can't go wrong."

"Are you ready to see Katniss Everdeen in her wedding dresses?" Caesar booms, lifting his hands up to rile the audience. He's met with thunderous applause.

"I think the Capitol's more invested in the wedding than Peeta and Katniss are," I mutter without thinking. My stomach jolts and I realize that was a very dangerous thing to say. But hopefully the roar of the TV audience is loud enough to cover my careless slip-up.

"Well, at least he _has_ a bride," my son mutters. I guess my comment wasn't entirely unnoticed. Peeta's brothers didn't take the news of the engagement well. They have no idea about the camera act versus the complicated relationship our victors harbor. "He's only seventeen," my son grouses. "I understand the Games were hellish, but come on. Wealthy, a huge house, _and_ a girl?"

The slideshow of Katniss in the dresses begins to play, with the audience screaming, cheering, and sometimes even booing alongside. Cinna was right about one thing. Katniss looks stunning, draped on fancy furniture and sets. The dramatic lighting highlights her dark makeup. Each of the dresses are so different in style, tone, and even in color. I had no idea there were that many versions of the color white. The girl on the screen doesn't even look anything like the Katniss Everdeen I know. Her body is curvier somehow, like the Capitol tried to make her look sexier, and though black eyeliner accentuates her eyes, they don't have the same stormy, obsessed look that they've held since she's come home.

I try to imagine a Twelve-style wedding, not the blowout the Capitol is planning. We don't have the money, time, or the resources to throw that big of a bash, but we still manage a pretty memorable ceremony. I think of the rented white dresses that have been passed around so many times, seen so many happy unions. The clean shaven groom whose smile is the most radiant thing about him. Usually merchants can afford to scrape up a meal, but sometimes, we just skip right to the toasting. For us, it's the people, not the fancy food and decor, that make an atmosphere.

I can still remember my toasting as if it were yesterday. The firelit living room. Back when the only thing that mattered was us. My wife and I toasted and shared our first bit of bread on that smoky, simple night. Did I wonder then what my life would be like in the future? Because I doubt that anything I spun comes close to what it is now.

"Even if I did manage to find a bride," my son continues. "It's not like she'd get any of this special crap. I mean, look at this! She's got a dozen dresses and a whole city of rich folks to choose one for her!"

"Maybe it's better that way," I tell him, still lost in the memories of my toasting. "Sometimes bigger isn't better."

"Cinna wasn't lying!" Caesar exclaims when the slideshow runs out. "Have you _ever_ seen a more beautiful bride!" He laughs. "Don't worry, Peeta Mellark, no one's going to steal her. But I think we can all agree that Katniss's wedding dress, whichever that one may be, is going to top the charts for most gorgeous gown! A big round of applause to Cinna!"

"Well, she's a wonderful girl and deserves a wonderful dress," Cinna says in a very down-to-earth tone. He doesn't strike me as having the same flamboyant personality that most Capitol folks do.

"Remember, interested parties must cast their final vote by noon tomorrow," Caesar reminds everyone. "Let's get Katniss Everdeen to her wedding in style!"

"Style?" my wife says scornfully. "That girl looks like the Capitol ate a sheet, then threw it up with some pearls and lace."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," I reply. "Cinna did a nice job with the designs." I reach forward to shut the television off, but Caesar Flickerman's still speaking.

"... just when you thought the night couldn't get more exciting!" he exclaims. "Stay tuned for our other big event of the evening. That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"

My stomach turns over and I suck in my breath. I'd forgotten about the card reading.

"Huh?" my son asks. He's still too young to have experienced the last Quell and doesn't know how they work. "What is this, like a reaping or something?"

"They'll read the card," my wife says in a strained voice.

"The card?"

The anthem plays, announcing the appearance of President Snow. A knot solidifies in my stomach at the sight of him. Ever since Peeta told me we were being watched, I'd wondered many times if the President himself was listening to an exchange. Watching as I baked. Are his eyes among those peering at me from the corners? Those thoughts don't leave me with a very good taste in my mouth.

Trailing the President is a little boy who looks much too young to be wearing such a mature, stiff-necked suit. In his hands, he presents a wooden box that looks deceptively simple for something hiding such horrors.

If the Hunger Games are entertainment, then Quarter Quells are the spectacles of the decade. They only happen once every twenty-five years, which is much too often for us living in the Districts. They make the Hunger Games look like recreation. There's always a barbaric twist, designed to make the districts miserable in every way possible.

"Panem wasn't always this peaceful, this fluid," President Snow begins in an unvarying tone. "The Dark Days, from which the Hunger Games were born, brought terrible tragedy on this country. The rebels decided they no longer needed a Capitol, no longer needed a heart to their body, a brain for their heads. They came in with their violent, primitive ways and believed that the answer to peace was with warfare. This, of course, proved false. All the rebels brought was death to their children and terror to their country. Justice prevailed, however, and that's why we are standing here to today. But, there had to be a punishment, a consequence. So, we created the Hunger Games. And when the laws were laid out, we decided that every twenty-five years there would be a glorified version of the Games designed to make fresh the memory of those killed in the rebellion."

The speech drones on and on. It's the same speech we've heard a thousand times, but I can tell that the President's speech writers selected a few choice phrases. Phrases to remind districts on the verge of rebelling what happened the last time they questioned the government.

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

I push away the repulsive thoughts of this Quarter Quell. How would it have felt to be _voted_ to go to the Games? I can't even imagine the polls. Standing in line, putting in a poor childs name. Or worse, knowing your neighbors were weighing the odds, possibly nominating you to die. It's that kind of thing that rips a district, friendships, even families to shreds.

"On the fiftieth anniversary," President Snow continues, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

Maysilee Donner. That's the first name that comes to mind. She was also a merchant's kid, in my year at school. The thought of her makes my heart twist painfully. Our parents were pretty good friends, so Maysilee and her twin sister were over at my place often. She was among the few girls I could actually talk to. The thought of her sweet, yet tenacious disposition and the way we used to spend long house anxiously discussing our youthful anxieties forms a lump in my throat. Her death reminds me just how awful the Quell is.

"And now," the President says. The boy holding the box steps forward, presenting it carefully to Snow. Rows and rows of envelopes stand, death written inside every yellowing one. The President runs his fingers along them, then selects one marked with a seventy-five. A strange trembling begins in my hands. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary," he begins, "as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."


	38. Déjà Vu

" _What do you think it'll be like?" Maysilee asks nervously. Her knees shake a little, her dress slightly too small. "Our chances of being picked have doubled."_

 _The dust from the gravel road lodges itself in our throats and noses, stifling the little oxygen we're able to pass through our lungs._

" _Well," another girl in our group says tremulously. "The odds are still in our favor, right? The Seam kids have their names in many more times."_

" _But our names are still there," I mutter. There's no point in sugarcoating the truth. My eyes find the big, glass reaping balls and settle on the one filled with the boys' names._

 _Our small procession crawls forward towards the sign-in tables. The kids on all sides of me press in against us, adding to the claustrophobic fear._

" _Guys, it'll be fine," Maysilee's sister says with a false sense of confidence. We're approaching the table now. In front of us, a young boy breaks down and starts to cry. It must be his first year. What an awful time to enter the reaping. The Quarter Quell. The Hunger Games with an awful twist . This year, as was announced a few months ago, there will be twice as many tributes reaped. Double the chances. Double the competition. Double the fear._

" _I don't want to go!" the boy shrieks madly. "No, I don't want to go! Don't let them take me! Don't let them take me!"_

 _I stop dead, completely absorbed in his meltdown. I feel the same way, honestly. If I could disappear, just cease to exist, maybe it would be better than what we're about to face. I'm holding up the line and in danger of being trampled when someone's hands press on my shoulders. I let them steer me towards the table, my eyes still on the weeping boy._

" _You okay?" Maysilee asks. She's let the others go ahead to come back for me._

" _Yeah," I swallow. "It's just - the way - I can't -"_

" _I know. But the others are right. The odds are still in our favor. I'll see you after, okay?" She signs in and I see her join the other girls. I also notice that my crush has joined them. At the sight of her, my stomach gives another sickening jolt. What if she's picked? I see her blonde hair swish and a shiver runs down my spine. Out of all the girls in our year, she's definitely the most beautiful. Not just in looks, but her personality is like licking honey off a spoon on a soft spring day. If she's picked, I'll never have the chance to say anything to her._

" _Next," the attendant says. My finger is pricked, bringing me back to the present with a sharp stab. I join the boys my age, who give me brief nods of acknowledgment._

" _Who do you think it'll be?" one of them whispers. "We've got two chances of being reaped this year."_

 _I shrug because there's no good answer. Two of us will not be coming home._

 _The girls are reaped first, as usual. I don't know the first girl whose name comes out of the ball. I've seen her around school, sure, but I don't know her name. Now I will, though. She's a tribute._

" _Maysilee Donner."_

 _The world swoops. No. No, it can't be. I turn, as if in slow motion, and search for her. I see her hugging the other girls. Her sister clings to her, but she pulls away. Not Maysilee._

 _I keep my eyes on her the entire time. I almost don't care if my name is called because I'll be standing on the stage with her. She looks so brave. The same girl who assured me that everything was going to be okay is the only one out of our group who was chosen._

 _The first name to come out isn't mine. I'm not really listening, but a shabby looking kid who's so skinny his ribs are visible even through his shirt starts to climb up to the stage, so I'm assuming it wasn't me. There's only one more tribute now._

" _Haymitch Abernathy."_

 _The Seam boy doesn't say a word. Doesn't hug or nod to anyone. He just takes his place, mouth set in a scowl._

 _Maysilee looks so out of place among all the dark haired Seam kids. Her beautiful blonde hair, specially styled for today, shines like a final goodbye._

" _Let's have a big round of applause for the tributes from District Twelve who'll represent their district in the Quarter Quell!"_

My eyes stare without seeing, lost in the past. The Quell. The ghastly mutation of the Hunger Games. Even though Twelve won the last Quarter Quell, it was still one of the most traumatizing Games I've ever had to watch. Not just because of Maysilee, but because nothing should be more sadistic than the Hunger Games on a normal year. And somehow, the Gamemakers always top it.

Peeta. He was supposed to be safe. Safety, it seems, is an illusion. Because Peeta Mellark is a tribute again.

No, wait, that's not entirely true. Katniss is the female tribute. There's no way around that. But there are two male victors for Twelve. Haymitch and Peeta. I want so badly, so selfishly, for the male tribute to be Haymitch.

"Peeta," my older son gasps. It sounds more like a gag, actually. "How - they can't -"

"They did," my wife's fists are balled up which is never a good sign. "They just did."

"Why? There's no explanation!"

"So help me -" and then she stops. Because the house is bugged and we can't speak our minds. Well fantastic. My son's as good as dead and we can't even speak the horrible thoughts on our tongues. Just great.

Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I wonder if it's something they heard us say that brought on this ultimate retribution. Could we have caused this punishment?

"There's still Haymitch," my wife says. "Maybe he'll be chosen instead."

"Yeah, but Peeta would rather die than stay here and watch Katniss go back into the arena. It'd tear him up," my son sighs.

So maybe he does understand Peeta. Now that he says it, I know it's true. Peeta will either be reaped into these Games or he'll volunteer. He wouldn't in a million years sit and watch Katniss Everdeen, the only girl he's ever loved, fight to the death when he should be there with her. He'd much rather die than live in a world without that girl.

"Well, you don't have to be jealous of him anymore," my wife says to our son. "Lots of money, a big house, pretty girls don't do you much good dead."

"No," my son says hoarsely. "No, there's no precedent for this. The victors are safe, out of the reaping!"

The world is tipping, much like it did so many years ago when Maysilee was reaped. I can't seem to get enough oxygen. Black spots dance in my eyes, warning me. I stand up shakily.

"Where are you going?" I hear someone ask. But I can't answer. I just know that I need some fresh air. Now.

As I push open the door and step out into the cool, chilly evening, I gulp down inhale, after inhale of the night air. The crisp, clean air leaves me to think clearer, which I'm not sure is a good thing. At least I no longer feel like I'm going to pass out. I'll walk for awhile. I don't know where to - anywhere away from here.

Déjà vu. A tape being played over and over. I just went through this. With Maysilee. With Peeta's first Games. It's all a big cycle, with fear and terror predominating. How many times will I have my son taken away? How many times will I believe he's dying? The feeling has become part of the routine, expected. But perhaps it's never been quite as real as in this moment. Maybe my wife is right. Nothing is ever going to change as long as the Capitol's in charge.

I hear someone's footsteps on the road behind me, but I don't turn. If it's Peacekeepers, let them come. They've already taken just about everything.

"Where are you going?" It's not the authorities, but my wife. She's out of breath and I vaguely wonder how far I've walked if she had to run to catch up.

"I'm just walking," I tell her.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

Because that's the truth. I'm not okay. How can the Capitol do this? They already took my son. He was already apart of their sick show. I don't understand. He came home. He was safe.

"We should have started a rebellion," I whisper hoarsely. I don't care who overhears. I'm so beyond caring about anything right now. "Then this wouldn't be happening."

"Maybe it would," she sighs. "Rebellions aren't won in a month. Peeta would probably be in more danger. We all would be."

"How can he possibly be in more danger than he is now?" I burst out. "How? Tell me! Because he's not going to live this time. This is punishment, don't you see? They'll kill him if it's the last thing they do." I feel my voice catching and I don't want it to break. I refuse to cry. To give the Capitol the pleasure of seeing my tears.

For once, my wife doesn't have anything to say. She just glares off into the night. "We can't keep letting them do this to us," she mutters. "They taunt us with hope, dangle it in front of our faces, then snatch it away again."

"Peeta thought he was safe. I thought he was safe."

"Peeta was never safe," she says sharply. "Never. He and Katniss both got out alive and it was only a matter of time until the Capitol figured out a way to get back at them."

"Do you think that was really written down on that card?" I ask. It's just too perfect of an answer.

"I don't care what was written on that card. Blood. Dead children. Fear. That's what it may as well have said. Really, the whole country has been played. Thinking the Capitol would mind it's own damn business for once. Thinking they'd let the blatant rule break slide. We're all idiots."

She's completely and totally right. How could we have believed that our son was safe? The Capitol had us focused on the romance, let it play out, let the country believe that there would be a wedding, a joyful ending in their star-crossed story. Turns out that was just a ruse. They had us looking in the other direction while they prepared the poison. We were unsuspecting and therefore vulnerable.

Katniss. Peeta. Gone forever. Because, really, there's only a few precious months before the reaping. And this time, it's goodbye for real.

"Peeta's probably in shock," I say, just now realizing that he had to watch this all by himself. In a big, dark, lonely, house that signifies the Capitol's control over him.

"Don't," my wife warns me. "Don't go rushing to his side and pretending to know how it feels. It just makes things worse." I know she's really talking about people's reactions when her brother died. That trauma runs deep inside her veins. "Let him be. When he's ready, he'll come to you."

And that's when it finally sinks in. After Peeta left for the first Games, his life truly ended. Sure, he came home. But not whole. My son was broken, traumatized, and completely a puppet of the Capitol. Marry this girl, live in this house, don't say that, wear this. Everything since he's come home has been staged, controlled, with every day leading up to this moment. No amount of sealed lips in our house or quiet compliancy would have derailed this. We were so blind.

In the face of love, we lost sight of our enemy. And it hurts.


	39. He's Not Coming Home

" _When he's ready, he'll come to you."_ That's what my wife said.

It's like I've been torn in half. The dominant part of me, the slightly anxious and "wait for trouble to come to you" side agrees with her words. Wholeheartedly. If I were in that position, my inevitable death announced to the country, the ominous few months sure to be my last, I'd definitely prefer to be alone. Worse, it's not only him who's suffering. Katniss, the girl he's loved for so long, who he would do anything for, has been marked with a target, too. In an arena of Capitol favourites and seasoned fighters, only one victor can come out. I wouldn't want anyone to try and "understand" how that would feel.

But there's another voice, the fatherly, parental one that hasn't really been doing it's job, that tells me she's wrong. If he only has a few months to live, why live them in darkness? Shouldn't he be spending as much time as possible with family, with Katniss? After all, someone wise once said we should live each day like it's our last. Thus, a constant, internal battle rages inside my brain making the days fold together into one long, unmeaningful debate.

It's almost miraculously that the sun continues to rise in the mornings and set in the evenings - sometimes I wonder whether the earth won't just leave us all in darkness, swallow us up like the insignificant beings we are. One day passes. Then two. Then five. Peeta doesn't come to the bakery, nor does he show up for dinner. It's like he's disappeared of the face of the planet.

Whenever I bring up the possibility that he needs me, my wife is adamant that I leave him alone. "The boy needs time to let it all set in!" she keeps telling me. "Just the sight of you may be enough to make him do something crazy. You'll make it worse."

But I'm a father. It's my job to take care of my son. Comfort, support - isn't that my responsibility? Instead, I'm far away, removed, while my son suffers through the death sentence alone. No, it's not happening anymore. I can't wait any longer for him to come around. For all we know, he could have died of shock when the Quell was announced. There's a difference between space and abandonment.

One afternoon, when I'm sure my wife will be in the market for at least a few hours, I temporarily close the bakery and start down the path towards the Victor's Village. I may regret this, but I can't stand it anymore. I can't go another day pretending everything is fine.

The place is oddly quiet, but I knock on Peeta's door anyway. As I suspected, there's no answer. I stand there on the steps for a while, my feet shifting, unsure whether to leave or to wait. The internal voices become vocal again, each expressing their opinions, but never coming up with a solution. Fed up with my brains lack of authority, my fingers reach out and twist the doorknob. It gives a little groan, then turns in my hand. It's unlocked.

A horrible feeling of guilt begins to form and my face feels hot as I creep into the house. I just need to make sure he's okay.

"Peeta?" I force myself to call out. No response. "Peeta?"

Just to be sure, I check all the rooms until I'm forced to accept that my son's not home. But if he's not here in the house, then where else could he be? I've been watching for him in town for the past week, but he's never made an appearance. It's like a childhood game of hide and seek. I was a much better hider than seeker.

Frustrated, I hang my coat on the hook and sit down in a chair. If Peeta doesn't come home in ten minutes, I'll leave. The bakery can't be closed for much longer anyway. But ten minutes pass too quickly and I'm still sitting in the eery quiet. If I'm honest, it's a whole twenty minutes before my son comes home. Peeta's face is red and he's sweating profusely. His shirt is in his hand, which he seems to be using to as a towel.

"Wh- how -" he splutters when he sees me.

At the sight of his face, I realize just how much I've been shoving down. Anguish and despair come bubbling up the surface. It's worse this time around. Much worse. I know full well what he's stepping into. _He_ knows what he's stepping into. A horrible feeling of misery crawls out and threatens to smother me. "I'm sorry, Peeta" I blurt out, my voice coming out more tormented than I'd meant it to. "I'm so, so sorry that -"

"Dad, it's fine," he says gently, cutting me off, pushing back his sweaty curls.

"Where - where've you been?" I ask. What I really want to ask is _how_ he's been, but something advises me against it.

"Training," he mutters, busying himself with a cup with water, filling it and taking a long drink. Probably so he doesn't have to talk.

"Training for what?"

Peeta sets the cup down on the counter with a bit of a bang. "We're going to be like Careers," he says. Only the keenest of ears could detect the bitter grief hidden within the words. "We train every morning and watch old tapes of the Games at night. Two of us are coming home from the Capitol."

"A mentor… and a victor?" I know the answer as soon as the question forms.

"I don't want to talk about it," my son says quietly.

"Haymitch and Katniss. That's who you want -"

"Dad?" his voice constricts, becoming choked with emotion. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I'm going to be fine, but I - I need to figure out what I need to do. Please? Just let me do that?"

A deep emptiness. That's what I feel. I shouldn't have come. I made things worse, just like my wife warned. I stand and move towards the doorway, cursing myself for listening to the other voice. What good has it ever done me? Why does it always take me until right after to look back and see how stupid I was?

Peeta doesn't move from his spot by the counter. He's still clutching his shirt in his hand, knuckles white. I can see him shaking a little, his bare chest reflecting the afternoon sunlight. "She's going to come back," he whispers. His voice is void of anger now. There's just a hollow emptiness that comes with betrayal and heartache.

Pausing in the doorframe, I dare to inch a little closer. Peeta is staring at nothing, just fixated on a point in space.

"She's going to come home or we're both going to die because I'm not coming back here without her. I can't live in this house and look across the street _every day_ , knowing that she used to be there. I can't. I just -" he breaks off, swallowing hard.

In that moment, I feel so hopeless. There's nothing that I can do or say to stop this pain. Nothing to lessen the hurt or to make everything go away. It just has to run its excruciating course. My presence seems to have dissolved the barrier Peeta's put up because he's crumbling before my eyes. He sinks into the chair I previously occupied and puts his head in his hands. Should I comfort him? Does he just want me to stand here?

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask. My son doesn't answer, but I think his shoulders shrug a little. Not really the answer I was looking for. I'll do anything he needs me to do. Go. Stay. Listen. But since he's specified no preference, I choose the safest one. "Alright, then I'll just… go."

"Dad?" His voice is muffled by his hands.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want you to think that this is like last time. I'm not coming home. I will die in that arena. You won't see me again. Yes, one victor has the chance to come out but I won't be me. I won't come home without Katniss. Just… don't go thinking there's any other possibility. I will be dead in a few months. Get that in your head now."

"No," I tell him. "I figured as much. I - I knew as soon as the Quell was announced." The same way I know that Peeta will be the tribute. Haymitch can't offer Katniss the same protection that my son is adamant about. He will enter that arena with her, holding onto his final hope, the final maniac wish that Katniss Everdeen is somehow spared.

"Good."

The whole way home, I try to picture the end. Which one of the victors will have my son's blood on their hands? Chances are I watched their Games. There's also another thought, one that I don't even want to admit to myself. I just can't shake the underlying suspicion that the Capitol won't let Katniss win these Games. No matter how insistent Peeta is on her survival, no matter how many times he puts her life over his, it may not be enough to bottle the hate the Capitol directs her way. Because Peeta wasn't the instigator. He didn't pull out the berries. I mean, sure he agreed to it, but Katniss started it. Why should he get roped into the punishment? For a dark, wild moment, I almost wish she'd died in that first arena.

And then I come to my senses, the smell of the bakery extracting those awful thoughts from my head as I walk through the door. Katniss has brought Peeta so much happiness, so much comfort. How can I sit here and blame her when I know less than half of what goes on between them? He wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for her. It's just not fair that things had to turn out this way.

.

.

As time goes on, the Quell turns from a hazy, jumbled nightmare into a reality. It's happening. In just a few month's time, our victors will be standing on the stage again at the reaping. That, perhaps, is the most terrifying resolution ever haunt the people of Twelve. To haunt me. It's worse than Capitol eyes staring at me from the corners, worse than finding out the romance from the first Games was an act.

Last time, we were the nobodies. The underdogs who rose to the top, defied the odds. We cheered our tributes on, knowing they had a chance of coming home. This time, there's no hiding the anger and shock the district feels at losing our victors who thought they had a happy ending. The low buzz of fury can be detected almost everywhere. But it'll fizzle out before long thanks to the security.

The day after the Quell announcement, another train load of Peacekeepers showed up in Twelve. I think there's a higher population of them than actual residents these days.

Peeta still doesn't come to the bakery very often, but I think it's more that he's so busy with his new regime than avoidance. I don't know, maybe it's a mixture of both. He and Katniss have both gained lots of weight and they look more muscular than I've ever seen children of Twelve. Whatever they're doing is working, at least physically. I don't know if it's possible to prepare mentally for the horrors to come. It seems that Peeta is putting all of his fight and pain into this new training plan, which is something I admire.

Much like I did when he first came home, I go to the Victors Village most days to bring him bread and small news from town. Mostly, it's just an excuse to check in on him. Peeta accepts my visits, but we don't discuss the Quell or even much of the training. There's a common divide when it comes to these Games. I don't try to bring it up and he doesn't mention it.

But one morning, I catch sight of a newspaper on the counter. Normally, I might not pick it up, but there's a headline that catches my eye.

 ** _QUARTER QUELL VICTOR OF THE VICTORS: POLLS OPEN_**

Upon closer inspection, this paper has a very Capitol look about it. Who else would be betting on the Quell? I scan the article

 _After the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, people had begun to think there would never be another Games quite that exciting. But they were not ready for what our Gamemakers had in store for them. This Quarter Quell brings back everyone's favorite victors in a once-in-a-lifetime Games. People are frenziedly putting in their bets and the stakes have never been higher. Who will be the Victor of the Victors?_

The stakes have never been higher? Are they talking about the betting or the tributes who are going to their sure death? This makes it sound like a television program, an easy entertainment with en extra long episode or something. Only in the twisted Capitol.

Beneath the words, a chart shows the favorites as far as the Capitol is concerned. Katniss is in the lead, followed by Peeta.

" _I think Peeta will try to have Katniss win, especially because he's already disabled," says Lusie Belle. "His leg will definitely inhibit him. Peeta is my favorite victor - his devotion is simply heartbreaking!"  
_ _Cepheus Dollen disagrees. "I think Katniss will want Peeta to win. He's strong and it's between him and Finnick Odair, in my opinion."_

On and on. Everyone seems to believe that either Katniss, Peeta, or a few assorted others will win this Quell. "Peeta?" I ask aloud, my eyes still on the paper.

My son's adding a few final strokes to a painting. This one depicts a night in the cave. There's no mistaking the dim, shadowy light and the two figures wrapped around each other.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Hm?" Peeta surfaces from the other world he goes into when he's painting. Whenever my son is particularly passionate about something, he gets this look in his eyes, blazing, fierce, and almost otherworldly now, his brush pauses in mid air as he lets the question compute. "Oh, the Mayor's daughter let Katniss and I borrow that."

I know who he's talking about, but I can't place the face. "The blonde one? Her name is…"

"Madge. I think she and Katniss are pretty close."

Madge, that's right. So she's the daughter of Maysilee's sister. It's strange to me how childhood friends can live so close and know so little about each other's lives. "You said Katniss and Madge are close?"

"Yeah, they spend a lot of time together." He turns back to his painting, sliding the brush easily along the canvas.

"I knew her mother," I say. I don't know why.

"You did?"

"Yeah. She was a Donner before she married the Mayor. Her parents owned the sweetshop. She had a twin sister, too. Maysilee."

Peeta seems to understand where I'm going with this story by my tone. "In which Games was she killed?"

"The last Quell."

"Oh. And that's supposed to help me because…"

"It's not," I shrug. "Just thought I'd be honest." Suddenly, Peeta puts down his brush and stares at the painting. Then, gently begins to smear the paint.

"What's wrong?"

"It's strange, he laughs. "I usually paint when I need help sorting out my thoughts... but I don't need to sort out anything anymore."

"What do you mean?" I'm startled by this sudden swing.

"I don't need to figure anything out. Don't you see? There's nothing I can do now but save Katniss. That's my new way of making this better."

Damn the Capitol. Damn the Quell. How can they sit there and _bet?_ Do they not see what I do? I don't want Peeta to go. Beautiful, sweet, wonderful Peeta.

Heaven help us.


	40. The Final Reaping

The day of the reaping is hot. Hotter than I can remember a reaping ever being. A slightly nauseous feeling gnaws at my stomach. Today I say goodbye. Forever.

I spent all last night thinking about it. I can't stumble over my words this time. The final, precious minutes I'm allowed to have with my son will be the ones he will take with him when he dies. They are the last memories I'll ever have of him until - well, until I die, and maybe not even then. Death is final. There's no reversing it, no rewinding the life of the lost. Today, I'm losing Peeta forever.

Forever is a word that I'm not quite sure what it means. Sure, I know _what_ it means, but truly, how long is forever? Does forever end? In theory, no. But that's living. Does death terminate forever? Do the laws of eternity still apply after your soul departs? I hope so because the thought of never seeing Peeta again, even if it's just our souls brushing somewhere in the heavens, is unbearable. If I can hold on to the hope that our souls will someday reunite, maybe it won't be so hard to live the rest of my life without him.

Once everyone is in place in the square, Peacekeepers escort Katniss, Haymitch and Peeta down the aisle towards the stage. I feel as if people are moving through molasses. The victors faces are set in hard lines of finality. As he passes, ever so briefly, Peeta catches my eye. Unlike the past months, when his blue eyes would flit away upon locking with mine, he holds them there. They're a thousand years old, belonging to someone much older than seventeen. He's come to terms with his fate, accepted it even. The thought that he could get Katniss home is fueling him. In fact, I see a glimmer of the boy who'd never been touched by the Games. The same boy who came running home every day, telling me a new bit about Katniss. What she did. What she sang. What she wore.

I'm struck by just how much Peeta's grown up, even in these past few months alone. You don't see it while it's happening - only in hindsight. He doesn't look scared today. Those eyes that were so frightened, so shocked at his previous reaping and even at the announcement of the Quell, are just sad now. They've seen so much. Ironically, today they're calmer than I've seen them in a while. Just like the ones I'd look into as I would hold him, marveling at the tiny, vulnerable little boy who trusted me completely. There was an innocence then that has long been gone, but his characteristic steadiness is still there. Peeta's always been a rock, a safe harbor for people like me. He deserved so much more. The world deserved him for so much longer.

Effie Trinket opens the reaping, but she doesn't seem to be as _Effie_ as she usually is. "Welcome, welcome, as we celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary and third Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games," she says slowly and without the spastic inflection that usually distinguishes her voice. "As always," she pauses, her eyes drifting to Katniss, "ladies first."

Her hand gropes around inside the large ball, so unusually empty of names. It's strange for the reaping to be so absent of fear. Usually, everyone's sick with anxiety, but today, there's just a despondency that shows up even in Effie's words. There's no element of surprise, no fear of the unknown. Every single one of us knows whose name is coming out of that ball.

"The female tribute," Effie says in a very falsely bright voice. She looks almost as if she's trying not to cry. "Katniss Everdeen."

Katniss keeps her head held high as she takes her place beside Effie, but the sunlight catches a single tear rolling down her cheek.

" _Wonderful,"_ Effie chokes out. "And now, for the men."

For the men. She didn't say boys. Because neither Peeta nor Haymitch can be classified as that now. They've both been robbed of the wholesome nature that a boy contains. Only two, fragile slips of paper rest at the bottom of the ball.

Effie slowly, painstakingly selects one and opens it. "The male tribute from District Twelve..." She reads the name, her wig quivering, and lets out an audible sigh. This is it. The moment of truth. "Haymitch Abernathy."

"I volunteer as tribute." Peeta's voice rings out across the silent square. Not tremulous, not scared, just strong. Haymitch grabs Peeta's arm and they have a brief exchange. My son shakes his head once and I hear him telling his mentor to let go. His future has been tossed up into the air and now it's come down. He will be going to the Quell, just like I'd predicted. But it still leaves me with a closed throat and a hurting jaw from trying to hold back the tears.

Effie looks in serious danger of crying herself now as Peeta stands beside her. " _Very well._ The tributes from District Twelve. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark," she says softly, laying a hand on my son's shoulder. Maybe I was wrong about her. It seems that people really cared about him, and Katniss, too. They're suddenly more precious than ever before.

There's a long moment of silence as we all get one last look at our victors. Katniss and Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. The tributes, victors, and now tributes again of District Twelve. In the front, someone raises their fingers in our three finger salute. How fitting. A district goodbye. The rest of the crowd follows without hesitation. I press my own three middle fingers to my lips and gently raise them out towards our tributes.

There's a beat and then - Katniss and Peeta simultaneously return the gesture. It's our tributes saluting the crowd who is saluting them. I see Katniss is crying, but Peeta just lets his eyes roam the crowd until he finds my face. His eyes say everything he can't. Goodbye. Don't worry. I love you. It's his way of reassuring me that he's okay.

All around me, I hear the sniffles of my friends and neighbors. We don't want to lose our victors. Why? Why do they have to go?

And then, the beautiful, poignant goodbye is broken, like glass shattering. The Peacekeepers take action. Thread latches on to Katniss and Peeta, pulling them into the Justice Building. Where I'll say my final goodbyes. I plan on saying goodbye to both of them. Last time, I did so only because Peeta asked me. But I need to thank Katniss for allowing my son to have the comfort that she gave him.

The doors close and Twelve is left in the square, our fingers still half raised. The Peacekeepers are ushering us away, telling us to go home.

"Wait," my wife tries to push against the wave of people. I'd almost forgotten that she and my other sons were beside me. "We get to say goodbye. We're his family!"

The Peacekeeper nearest us shoves us forward with his gun. "New procedure," he grunts. "The tributes are to be loaded directly onto the train."

The world slows down, moving at a pace a slug could challenge. What does he mean? Loaded directly onto the train?

"Keep moving!" he orders.

"That's not fair!" my wife shrieks at him. "You can't take away my son and -" Her words end in a cry as the Peacekeeper hits her with the butt of his gun.

"Talk back again and it'll be harder."

It's that little exchange that sets the world right side up again. I pull my wife behind me. They can't take Peeta and try kill him for entertainment twice, then hit the only family I have left. My sons had the same idea.

The Peacekeeper doesn't seem fazed. "Tell your mother not to defy authority," he tells my son who's holding onto his gun to keep it from coming towards us.

"So we really don't get to say goodbye? He's my little brother! Surely we can say one little thing?"

"You heard me, boy," the Peacekeeper continued to shove us forward. "They're on the train already. Now take your family and go home."

My wife's still muttering a string of profanity under her breath. At any second, she could snap and then where would we be? At the whipping post?

"Come on," I pull my family away from the square and into the bakery. The heavy emotion will come later. Right now, my blood has been replaced by burning oil.

"How dare they," my wife fumes. " _How -"_

"He's gone," my son interrupts her hollowly. "He's really gone."

"Did you ever go see him?" I ask, my anger seeping away in the quiet of our home.

"Once," my oldest says. "He didn't really want to talk, but he told me that he wasn't coming home."

"Me too," his brother nods.

It seems that Peeta prepared everyone in some way or another. That boy was the best gift we ever had. And then I realize why my wife is so furious. "You never went to say goodbye, did you? You waited for today?"

She just turns and leaves the room, absentmindedly rubbing the place where the Peacekeeper's gun smacked her arm.

I don't feel like doing anything. I didn't get to say goodbye. I'd planned it all out, really chosen what I'd wanted to say. Truly, what is a father without a son? Can you still consider yourself a father when one of your sons dies? Every wrong I've ever done Peeta comes back to haunt me, playing all the things I shouldn't have said (or more often, what I _should_ have). Does he forgive me? His eyes said yes, but does his heart?

Sleep is unwelcome. I rest my head against the bedpost, purposefully choosing an uncomfortable position, and yet it manages to still find me. My dream starts out unassuming.

Peeta and I are under the apple tree out back. He's toddling around the trunk, laughing. He picks up a small blossom and comes over, placing it in my hand.

"For you," he giggles.

"Thank you, Peeta."

In my palm, the blossom suddenly dissolves into a drop of blood. The tree begins to shower us in crimson droplets. Peeta's laughter turns to screaming as the blood keeps coming, drowning him in scarlet. His cries echo around and around until the blood rises high enough to cover his mouth. Then he begins choking. I'm frozen, unable to reach him. And suddenly, he goes under. I search for him, mobility returning. My hands dig through the thick, warm ooze but I can't find him. He's gone. The blood doesn't stop rising, though. It keeps coming. To my neck. To my nose. My lungs are bursting and I finally have to suck in. I wake myself up gagging.

It was just a dream. Peeta's okay. I'm okay. The blood's not real. It takes a moment for me to realize why I feel so empty. Everything sort of drops on me at once, like a bucket of ice water. The reaping. The Quell. Peeta's not okay. He's gone. I won't ever see him again.

My son is gone and I didn't get to say goodbye.


	41. Memories of Peeta

I see Peeta in everything now. Baking has become almost impossible for me. I enter the kitchen only to leave after a few minutes of agony. I can't handle the smell, the recollections associated with this part of my life. My other sons seem understand and take over for awhile.

But it's not just baking. Even something as simple as glancing at the scarred, scuffed stairs can bring back a flood of memories.

" _Daddy!" Peeta calls from the top of the steps._

" _Yes?" I have to smile. His big grin has a large gap._

" _I lost my tooth!" My son holds something out to me, and I can make out a small white thing in his hand. His first tooth._

" _I didn't even know it was loose," I tell him._

" _It wasn't! It was knocked out! My brothers were wrestling and I wanted to try." He's still grinning, so proud of himself._

" _You brothers knocked your tooth out?" I ask, appalled. I've told them over and over not to be so rough with Peeta. He's only six! "I'm going to have a conversation with them."_

" _No, it's okay!" Peeta bounds down the steps now, coming to hug me. "I volunteered to be their opponent! Don't get them in trouble, they just did it because I asked them to. If they find out I told you, they won't let me do it again."_

" _Let's go have some dinner," I tell him. I still plan on talking to my sons, but I can't say that to this innocent, ecstatic face beaming up at me._

The ghost of the smile that day brought me flits across my face. He was so proud of himself.

Later, I look out the window at the pigpen, stemming another memory.

" _Why do we own that pig?"_

" _Huh?" I look up from the bowl I'm focusing on and see Peeta staring out at the backyard._

" _Why do we own the pig?" He repeats in the patient way that only an eight year old can._

" _Well, she's good for eating scraps," I explain. "If we need it really badly, she can also be food."_

" _So we'll kill her?" He suddenly looks alarmed. "But I've already named her Paprika!"_

 _I try to keep a straight face. Naming the pig. This is why kids are truly the only thing left of worth in this world. Of course my son would name a dirty, smelly animal that people wouldn't pay attention to otherwise. "Paprika, huh?"_

 _Peeta nods. "Please don't kill her!"_

" _Don't worry, I don't have any plans to."_

And we never did kill that pig. I was the one who came up with the idea to breed her. Because I would never be able to kill an animal that had a name.

I half expect to see him coming around the corner or out sketching under the apple tree. It's like I've lost an appendage, a vital something to my survival. Just like Peeta did in the first Games. Damn, even an old saying brings him back to me. Is that what my life will be like now? Just jumping from one memory to the next?

When I hear someone come through the bakery door, I half hope it's Peeta. Every time that bell rings, a tiny part of me fills with hope before I realize why. Which reminds me -

" _I think we need a bell," Peeta remarks one afternoon, surveying the rusted old one that hangs on the door._

" _What do you mean? We have a bell."_

" _Yeah, but this one's all rusted," my son explains. "Sometimes I can't hear a customer come in and I keep them waiting. It hardly makes a noise anymore."_

" _Yes, but bells cost money. We need that money for food and flannel and wax." Peeta is totally right, as usual, but so am I. There's just not enough money for something so trivial._

 _My son sighs. "Why're we so poor?"_

 _The question squeezes my heart a little. All my boys have asked me that question at one time or another. Now it's Peeta's turn. "We're not poor exactly. In fact, we're much better off than most people in this district."_

" _But we don't have enough money," he insists. "How can we get more? Can we just bake a lot?"_

" _It doesn't work like that," I tell him sadly. "Believe me, if the answer was that simple, I'd do it. But people don't have enough money to buy from us, which in turn costs us profits, so we can't buy from them. It's a broken cycle."_

" _Oh. So you can't fix it?"_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _You said it was broken," my son repeats. "You can fix anything. But not this?"_

" _Not this," I tell him. I can feel his disappointment and it makes me dejected even more so at our government's lack of attention to the state we're in._

The night of the interviews, I glance outside for just a moment. A magnificent sunset illuminates the sky. Reds dance with oranges. Pinks and purples streak the clouds. Something breaks deep within me. The sunset is so closely associated with my memories of Peeta. The way his brush could just as easily recreate this masterpiece and how fascinated he was by colors. Even as a kid he'd ask me how certain colors were made, but I almost never had the answer.

"Are you alright?" My wife's voice makes me jump.

"Sure, yeah. Great."

She glances at me skeptically, but for once, doesn't say anything. I guess she realizes how close I am to falling apart completely.

"The interviews will be on soon. Are we going to the square?" she asks.

The square. The square. Are we going to the square? I repeat the question over and over in my head, but nothing computes. Finally, I just shrug.

"The square, Mellark. For watching the interviews?" my wife huffs. "Unfortunately, they're mandatory so staying here and blinding yourself by looking into the sun isn't an option."

"Oh, uh…" I kind of assumed we'd watch the interviews at home. I haven't given it much thought. In fact, I haven't even really thought about what it'll be like to see Peeta onscreen talking.

So far, we've seen only scattered shots of training and assorted prep. But now, he'll have three minutes with the camera fully training on him. If I'd had my druthers, I'd have liked to stay home. Maybe even find a way to tune out. It would be so much easier to just pretend that Peeta was already dead. By dragging this out, we're only prolonging the pain. I deal with the loss of him at the reaping, only for the Capitol to show my how pampered he's been for the past week. No sense in feeling any relief or temporary reassurance. Last year, I was just thankful he wasn't dead yet, but this time, I kind of wish his suffering would end as quickly as possible.

So, I guess my choice would be to stay at home, but of course, I'm outvoted by the rest of my family.

As we take our places, near to the screen but not so close that we have to crane our necks, several people offer their condolences. Murmurs and whispers fly from their lips to my ears. A question forms in my brain and I wonder why I hadn't considered it before.

The interviews are supposed to let the country get to know the tributes before the Games. But we don't need to find out about this batch. These victors have been mentors and regular Game attendees. We've already seen them, know their fighting styles, even know much of their personal lives. What's the point of the interviews this time? Tradition? Old times sake?

When the interviews start, it becomes clear just how angry the victors are. A ripple of uncomfort travels through the crowd in the square as the first woman takes the stage.

She's the girl from District One. I remember her Games well, mostly because she and her brother won back-to-back.

"Well, Cashmere, I must say, we're very sorry to see you go. You made this a family affair, didn't you? Now -" Caesar Flickerman pauses, taking a second glance at the blonde haired girl. "Are you okay, dear?"

"I'm so sorry," Cashmere sniffs. "I just can't stop crying when I think about how much you all must be suffering."

"You all meaning, us in the Capitol?"

"Yes, you must be so sad to lose us. We're your victors. You cheered us on and perhaps even got to love us, idolize us. I'm so, so sorry that we can't be with you longer. Really, we're not going by choice. You must know that, but know also that we feel the same pain you do."

Caesar sighs as the buzzer goes off and several people in the audience are crying. The guilt trip is far from over, however, because it seems the victors are just warming up. Cashmere's brother, Gloss, is next.

"Well, Gloss, we've heard from your sister that she's torn up about leaving us all behind. What about you?"

"Well, you have become a family to us. She and I are so lucky to have met such kind people. Every time we've come for a visit or a tour, you guys have been so generous, so loving. I don't think anyone could have done it better."

As the interviews go on, it's more and more apparent that they were a bad idea on the Capitol's part. The Capitol audience becomes more distraught with each victor that takes the stage.

The District Seven tribute, Johanna Mason, spews out profanity that gives my wife a run for her money. Her voice has become shrilly to the point where dogs whine and glass shatters. By this point, Caesar looks very uneasy. Between the crowd's distress and the victors unanimous anger, he seems to have lost his usual flawless execution.

Even here in Twelve, we can't believe what a turn this event has taken. I wonder how they're taking this reaction in the media room.

"If President Snow is all powerful, why doesn't he call off the Quell? Surely, it's in his power," the District Eleven woman says.

Her district partner immediately backs her up. "He must not think it matters all that much. He must think that people don't really care. That this is just another Games."

"Ah, yes, how interesting," Caesar says through a forced smile. "And now, who's next. Uh, of course, the victor of last year's Hunger Games, one of our beloved star-crossed lovers, let's welcome Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve!"

The crowd in the square joins in the applause from the Capitol. She is our victor after all. Katniss emerges wearing…

"Is that a wedding dress?"

"Yes, I remember that one from the photo shoot."

"What were they thinking, putting her in that?"

The cries ring out all around me. Because Katniss Everdeen, our victor, is dolled up like a bride. _A bride!_ The outrage hums through Twelve. It's like rubbing salt in a wound. She'll never get to have her wedding, thanks to the Capitol. For a moment I almost forget the whole thing was an act.

I wouldn't expect the Capitol to share our anger, after all it's because of them that this is even happening, but I'm wrong. From the screen, we can hear people screaming for a change. The camera catches people sobbing, leaning on one another for support. Apparently, the victors' furious speeches have hit home and this dress puts them at their tipping point."

Caesar can only get one question out over the moans and shrieks from the audience.

"So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

The white dress ripples out into a large hoop skirt, like a tiered cake. I can't take my eyes off it.

"Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding…" Katniss starts off in a quavering voice. It seems she too is pulling the guilt card. "But I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just… the most beautiful thing?" And then she begins to spin.

I don't know what we're expecting here in Twelve, but none of us expected her dress to go up in flames. I mean, sure, we figured it'd have something to do with fire, but the fake stuff. This looks incredibly real. It burns away the silk and pearls skitter in all directions. When the smoke clears, I half expect Katniss to be gone. But she's still swaying in place, clothed in a coal - colored gown much like her wedding dress.

Only this one has wings.

"She's a mockingjay," someone gasps.

Indeed. Katniss has transformed into a feathery creature of the woods, free and beautiful even though she's anything but.

My breath catches just looking at her, so tragically draped in the feathers of a bird. I wish she could fly away, soar high above the Capitol and the Quell. If only those wings were real.

My wife however, doesn't seem as taken by the fancy clothes swap. She's eyeing the Peacekeepers that surround the square. They seem to be on edge, shifting their weapons as if expecting an outburst.

"What are you doing?" I breath. "What's wrong?" The cheers from the Capitol are enough to drown my words.

"That's the symbol," she says cryptically in a low voice. But the shouts are dying down and my wife shuts her mouth tightly.

Symbol. The symbol for what? Katniss is lowering her extensive wings now, and Caesar is almost beside himself with excitement. At his request, Cinna stands an takes a gracious bow. For a moment, everything seems like a normal interview again. Flashy costume changes. Stylists.

But there's an unfamiliar note of… something in the air. I can't tell what, but people and Peacekeepers are on edge. Waiting for something. But what?

And then it's Peeta's turn. The boy with blonde curls is like a breath of clear air. It's like I'm seeing a ghost, old memories of a boy I knew. I've been seeing him in my head, memories vivid as this footage, but nothing can compare to the sound of his easy going voice.

"Well, aren't you a cool drink of water?" Caesar sighs dramatically. Peeta is dressed in a white suit, so clean pressed it hurts.

"Well, after that small blaze I can imagine so," my son laughs.

"You sure like them spicy, don't you?"

"What can I say? I had no idea how hot she could get. I have a feeling I'll be spewing out feathers after our next kiss." The whole audience and the square laughs as one. Peeta can bring anyone together.

"Hopefully you don't overcook the poultry by adding more sparks." Caesar then segues into the interview itself. "So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you've been through, you found out about the Quell?" says Caesar.

"I was in shock." That much is true. "I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns and the next…"

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" says Caesar gently.

"Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?"

Uh oh. Secrets aren't good, especially because the entire country is watching. Peeta has a habit of revealing things via national television.

"I feel quite certain of it," Caesar promises. Oh shoot.

"We're already married."

Okay, was not expecting that. While the Capitol was planning some blowout, Peeta and Katniss created some other wedding? For show? For the act? Or could it have possibly been real? Their relationship was so confusing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it changed.

Caesar is just as confused as I am. "But… how can that be?"

"Oh it's not an official marriage. We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District Twelve."

The toasting. Peeta describes it and I'm once again reminded of my own. Because I guess I haven't been transported to the past enough today. Caesar is still gaping when Peeta assures him that no one else was there. Not even Haymitch.

My son starts to get more upset as his time ticks away. "Who could've seen it coming?" he asks angrily. "No one. We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere - I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that?"

"You couldn't, Peeta," Caesar comforts him by putting a hand on his arm. "As you say, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."

The camera makes a quick round to Katniss, who looks like she's tearing up. She's had her face buried in her dress for half the interview, but now she gives us a watery smile. The audience is going wild, clearly adoring these lovers and so upset to see them go.

"I'm not," Peeta cuts in, halting the applause. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."

Now where's he going? As if reading my thoughts, my wife whispers to me the exact same question. But I'm as lost as Caesar.

"Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"

"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar." There's a strange bitterness to his voice and I feel a sudden shiver of dread. "If it weren't for the baby."


	42. Baby Bomb

Holy-

What did he just say?

The square isn't just silent _-_ it's like everyone died, or at least stopped breathing. There's not even the normal purr of the crickets. The full force of what my son just said starts to sink in, registering in strangled cries and outbursts. If it weren't for _what_?

"Did he just -" my wife chokes on her words. "Did he say what I think…"

But I can't answer. I can't even shake my head. A whirlpool of unconnected thoughts paralyze me. How the hell - it doesn't make sense! What just happened? Peeta is implying that Katniss… that Katniss Everdeen… that Katniss is pregnant?

But is it real? I thought this was all an act, a game within the Games. I've been under the impression that Katniss and Peeta have rectified their relationship, but just barely. They need each other when they're at their breaking points. The only reason this wedding was happening was because of the Capitol and the pressure to keep up the romance. Instinct tells me that this is still part of the performance, but I really can't be certain anymore.

Could I be wrong? Could their relationship be more than just entertainment? I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing. And even if it was real to some extent, would they have really gone and … no, there's no way! Katniss doesn't even look pregnant, though that could go either way. For all we know, it could have happened very recently. In fact… didn't Peeta and Katniss share a bed awhile back? Yes, I remember him blushing. He said nothing happened, but maybe he was lying. No, Peeta doesn't lie. Especially to me… right?

If the Capitol was a wreck before this bombshell, now they're in hysterics. People are literally clambering over each other, shaking their first at the stage, screeching in protest. It's like a riot inside the Capitol itself, which I don't think was ever the intention of these Games. It's called the Quell for a reason - meant to suppress the districts - not create a protest right in their own front yard!

"Stop the Games!"

"She's pregnant!"

"A baby? Come on!"

"Barbaric!"

"Get them out!"

Peeta stands on stage, absorbing the wave caused by his announcement, letting the acquisitions swell. Tears run down his cheeks, but how real are they? I just can't wrap my head around the notion that he might have really gotten Katniss pregnant. Surely they understood the danger. Like my wife said, they've never been _safe._ Either way, it hurts. What is or what could have been, it doesn't really matter. It all comes back to the same thing: death of the innocent.

By the time he takes his seat, the program is in utter madness. Not even Caesar can do anything to bring it back. People are on their feet and the noise from the crowd is deafening, but somehow, they manage to play the anthem just a little bit louder. It jars me back into the present, if only for a brief moment.

As the victors rise, my son reaches out to Katniss. They both seem so sad, so upset. I want to call out to them, to hug them, to comfort them. The trouble is, I'm not sure if their emotions are true or not. Should that matter?

And then, it happens. The victors form a chain, connected by their hands. Peacekeepers take a moment to understand what's happening, but when they get it, all of them rush forward into the center of the square to block our view. The broadcast shuts off after a moment, the screens flickering to black, but it doesn't matter. They were too late and too slow - we saw enough. The victors were unified.

"Alright, move along," Peacekeepers tell us gruffly. They must not want us to discuss what we saw. Maybe they're hoping we all forget or overlook it.

No one moves. We all just gape at the dark screens, unable to process everything that just happened. How is it that these things transpire so quickly? One moment, we're listening to the victors allude to their rage and then the bomb explodes. We have a seventeen-year-old girl who's apparently pregnant, supposedly fierce adversaries joining hands, a Capitol audience calling for change.

"Clear out!" the Peacekeepers bellow at the loitering people. "Show's over and you no longer have permission to be outside. If anyone's still on the streets in fifteen minutes, we have orders to shoot them on sight!"

"Come on," my wife grabs our sons and pushes them forward, motioning for me to follow. "We're leaving, come on! Let's get out of here."

Still completely disoriented, I blindly stumble after her. People brush past me, all clearing their own path to their front doors, but I barely notice the jostling. On normal occasions, I would be completely overwhelmed by the crushing sensation, but tonight it doesn't even make an impression on me.

 _Katniss. Peeta. A baby that may or may not be real. Will they cancel the Quell? Katniss. Peeta. Victors united. A phantom fetus._

They won't cancel the Quell. It'd be unprecedented. Though, that kind of describes this whole thing. Even if they did pull Katniss out now, we don't have another victor to replace her with. Besides, the Capitol kills children every year without batting a surgically enhanced eyelash. Maybe it'd be better to die unborn than at the hands of a weapon.

And then there's the chain. The unified ranks of victors going to their certain death. Betrayed by the Capitol, been apart of a lie. I've never seen anything like it. You can be sure the districts saw it, as did everyone in the Capitol. The message is loud and clear. This is wrong. We don't agree. You can put us to death, but you can't control us completely.

I barely notice that we've made it home. The moment we're all inside, my wife locks the door and whisks the curtains closed. Not surprisingly, her anger is fueling this burst of energy. It's lucky that she's still able to think clearly because I don't think I'd have made it home otherwise.

My sons begin to argue. Or maybe they've been doing it for awhile and I've just tuned in.

"There's no way she's pregnant!"

"How do you know? Been spying?"

"No, listen to me, there's no way! Peeta and Katniss wouldn't have had enough time to find out. If by some miracle, she really is knocked up, she'd only be like, what? Six weeks along? They'll totally let her compete. They won't care."

"That's inhuman!"

"In case you haven't noticed, the Games are inhuman. I'm telling you, she's going in there."

"Shut up!" my wife hisses, pulling them apart. "Shut up both of you! Are you mad?"

My second son pulls away, a slight spark of fear kindling in his eyes. How sad is it, that after all these years, even though he's a grown man practically, he still fears his mother? "Sorry," he mutters.

"I should be getting home," his older brother says boldly.

"Oh no you won't!" my wife says. "Didn't you hear the Peacekeepers? They'll be out on the streets patrolling and trust me, they're not happy with the things that happened tonight. Stay here for the night unless you fancy your head being blown off. They'd probably prefer the latter, so take your pick."

This induces much grumbling from our boys. The last thing they want to do is get stuck here, but it's not like they have a choice. The Peacekeepers will be looking for any kind of victory tonight, even a small one in the form of a victor's brother out after curfew. And they meant business, too.

" _If anyone's still on the streets in fifteen minutes, we have orders to shoot them on sight!"_

In the sudden stillness that follows a shock, I try to sort out how I really feel. Fear. Confusion. Exhaustion, mostly. The rebellion is teetering on the edge of action. Could the events tonight be enough to set it in motion? Is that what I want? Could my son's girlfriend or wife or… what exactly do I call Katniss? Is she pregnant? Doubt creeps into my mind. A moment ago I was so sure that this baby was real, but now - Peeta would have told me. One thing's certain, though. This phantom baby will strengthen Peeta's already rock-solid resolve to get Katniss out alive. Which means I need to return to me detachment process. For one shining moment, he was my son again. Peeta was alive and real, speaking even if the words didn't make sense. But that bubble has burst and it's time for me to let go.

"You alright?" my wife asks.

I'm barely capable of a shrug. Am I alright? There are so many things I wish I could discuss with her. She's good at answering questions, she always has been. Maybe, if we weren't being monitored, she could help me sift through the doubts circling like vultures in my brain. Or even give me tips on forgetting. But that's not the case. Our house is still being watched, perhaps more than ever before. We're both trapped, as are the queries pounding on my skull.

"We should get some rest," my wife says. "Big day tomorrow." I'm pretty sure that's a safe thing to say. Unless the Capitol manages to twist it into a code or something. I wouldn't put it past them.

I'm too emotionally wrung out to try and stay awake. Sometimes, sleep is a trap - a place where fear feeds on vulnerability. Tonight, thank goodness, it's an escape.

Big day tomorrow. That's right. Tomorrow, the Quell begins. The victors will enter the arena. The blood will begin to flow. I don't think the chain tonight will stop people from defending themselves. All it takes is one stray weapon, one life threatening situation, and they revert back to their old ways. The arena becomes a bloodbath again, the victors become murders again, and we spiral back into the cycle we've never been able to break.


	43. Forgetting Him

10…

 _This is it._

9…

 _The final countdown._

8…

 _Peeta has a matter of days left to live._

7…

 _Where are they?_

6…

 _Is that the ocean?_

5…

 _I wish I could freeze time._

4…

 _Where is my son?_

3…

 _Do they have to swim to get to the Cornucopia?_

2…

 _Wait!_

1…

 _Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin._

With each number, new thought replaces the last. Finally, the dreaded sound of the gong rings out. Unlike most years, when the arena becomes complete madness as the tributes are released, only a few tributes dive into the waves and begin frantically fighting their way towards the Cornucopia. Little spikes of rocky land separate each wedge containing two tributes. Beyond the blue water, we can only see a thin strip of sandy beach and beyond that, heavy, condensed greenery. Jungle is the first word to come to mind, however superannuated it may be. The murky depths of the green world are unassuming, yet no doubt, very, very dangerous.

My hands shake a little as I try to concentrate on copying out a recipe that I've been meaning to write down. My family has a yellowing collection of recorded recipes passed down through the generations. Due to everything that's happened in the past year, I haven't really kept it up to date, but this time, I've vowed to keep the Games from controlling my life. Last year, I dropped everything, let the fear and sadness consume me. I can't let that happen. Last night was a brief respite; I could pretend Peeta was still my son, but that's over. The sooner I let this go, the better it will be for everyone.

 _5 cups of flour_

Katniss was among the tributes who dove into the water. How does she know how to swim? Where'd she learn that here in Twelve? And she can't just swim, she's one of the fastest swimmers in the arena, save District Four. Actually, she's one of the first tributes to reach the Cornucopia's little island. She pulls herself out of the water, onto the rocks and sand, and then makes a beeline for the goods piled in the mouth. As is to be expected, she immediately slides a golden bow out from the spread.

Finnick Odair, the Capitol heartthrob, creeps up behind Katniss. I try to force myself to look away from the screen and back down at the paper, to appear nonchalant even though my heart is in my throat. But I can't. My eyes don't obey my brain's commands. The sand barely makes a sound beneath his feet, so comfortable on this terrain. Katniss still has her back turned - by the time she realizes, it'll be too late! Imagine the shock. The favorite tribute dying within the first minute.

 _Oh well, I don't really care._

But I must because when it turns out they're allies, I feel a knot lessen. Allies. That's a safe word, for now.

"Duck!" Odair commands. For whatever reason, Katniss listens to his words, something she'd not exactly known for. Good thing, too, because she would have been speared by a sailing trident. Instead, the prongs make contact in the man behind her. "Don't trust One and Two." Finnick retrieves his weapon and Katniss slings a sheath of arrows over her shoulder.

"Each take a side?"

The two split and begin to scan the pile, scouring it for anything that could be useful. But there's no food, no tent packs, not even a rope. All we see is metal.

"Weapons!" Katniss confirms. "Nothing but weapons!"

"Same here," Finnick calls as he grabs an extra trident or two. "Grab what you want and let's go!"

Allies are a good thing to have in the bloodbath. Someone to watch your back and protect you from the dozens of attackers. Katniss and Finnick make their way from the horn and fight their way back to the water. About halfway there, Katniss takes off running. She sees Peeta. He doesn't know how to swim, thus still stuck on his plate. Katniss wastes no time in preparing to get him, but Finnick stops her.

"I'll get him."

"Oh sure, so you can drown him," my wife mutters.

I turn to her so quickly I get a crick in my neck. I hadn't realized she'd joined me. "When'd you get here?"

"Just as the gong sounded. Wouldn't want to miss the bloodbath, would we?"

 _Nope, not in the slightest._

"Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition." On the screen, Odair pats Katniss's abdomen. He's referring to the mysterious baby that gives me a pounding headache every time I try to mull it over.

As it turns out, Finnick wasn't trying to drown Peeta. Katniss hauls my son onto the beach once he's close enough and he greets her with a kiss. Mags, the elderly volunteer also from Four, is the last person to join their group before they head off into the jungle.

A knock on the door interrupts our total concentration on the Games. Just what I'd promised myself I wouldn't do.

"I'll get it," my wife sighs. "It's the laundry," she calls a moment later. "Did you have anything you wanted to add to the bag? Where's your jacket? That thing needed a wash two weeks ago."

I try to shift gears from terror mode to normal, everyday life. Laundry. Anything I want to add. My jacket. "Better give it a wash then.," I conclude at last. "It should be on the hook." Now that the weather has warmed up, I don't need my coat anymore. And she's right, it really is in need of a wash.

"It's not there," my wife calls.

That's odd. Where else could it be?I'm usually pretty good about keeping things where they go - a messy kitchen is the first step to mistakes. I think back to the last time I had it. I wore it one chillier afternoon… where was I going? And then I remember.

"It's at Peeta's house…" I trail off. Because it's not really Peeta's house anymore. They won't clear it until he's dead for sure, but the question for that isn't "if" it's "when".

My eyes flit to the screen. There's still a good deal of fighting at the Cornucopia, but the cameras confirm that Peeta, Katniss, Mags, and Finnick are making good progress in the jungle. The Gamemakers probably won't send anything in until after the bloodbath, so I might be able to run to the Victor's Village and get back before anything major happens.

It's not until I'm outside that I wonder why I'm so set on going. On the one hand, everything in me screams to stay away. That was my son's place, it'll only make me upset all over again. I've sworn to forget, to pretend it didn't happen. It's too acute of an emotion and giving into it will rip my body apart. I'm not… not strong enough.

So why do I keep plodding forward, steadily approaching the Victor's Village and Peeta's living space for the past year? Closure. I think that's what I want. One final moment of goodbye before I get on with my life. I'm allowed that, right?

The house looks strangely unchanged. I almost expect to Peeta to open the door with a smile. Maybe a paintbrush in his hand. In a moment of weakness, I even knock. Just in case. But of course, no comes to the door. It's unlocked, which is odd. Why would he have left it like this? Because he knew I'd want to come back?

The unlit living room houses the ghosts. I see my son everywhere. A strange sound escapes as my eyes find a pile of his paintings next to a fireplace that still has ash from a semi-recent blaze. I find myself on my knees, my fingers tracing the steady brush strokes. His hand was here. It made these colors, swirled them together.

My throat begins to burn and a single salty tear rolls down my cheek and drops with a hollow sound on the canvas. I find the sunset painting, the one that is so much like my son himself. Bright and wonderful in the face of an upcoming night. Clutching it to my chest, I let the emotions I've trapped between my ribs tumble forward.

Longing. Pain. Regret. I miss him so much already. But he's gone. I won't see him again. So I just hug the painting and let myself feel the grief of several weeks.

I don't know how long I sit there, but when I finally work up the strength to move, my limbs are stiff. My cheeks feel cold and sticky from tears and my arms ache from clinging to the bulky shape of the painting. I want to take all the canvases home. Here, they'll probably be taken to some museum in the Capitol when Peeta dies and the Peacekeepers come to clear out his stuff. But I can't carry all of them. I make a promise that I'll return for them even though I know I won't.

Tucking the sunset painting under my arm, my feet make for the stairs instead of the door. Just in case he left anything I can't let the Capitol have. Nothing. The upstairs looks strangely unlived in, like he rarely used this part of the house. Too secluded, too dark. Then my eyes find a worn, leather bound journal on his bedside.

His sketchbook. I know this book well because it was I who gave it to him on his eighth birthday. It cost me a fortune and my wife didn't approve, but he needed something more lasting than chalk on pavement. My fingers flip the pages, reliving each wonderful memory captured in pencil or sometimes color.

A dandelion. The apple tree. The pigpen. I find one of large hands kneading dough and I know they're mine. A little girl in braids that can only be Katniss. A bird perched on a branch. When I find a sketch of the two of us sitting side by side, I can almost hear my heart break. The sketch is so lifelike. The light in his eyes, the muscles in my arm. In this picture, I look strong and protective, with my arm guarding him from any harm. It's the only thing about the picture that's false. Look at where Peeta is now. In an arena breathing in the death that's all around him.

The arena! Shoot, how long have I been here? My wife will kill me if I've missed something important. Neither will the Peacekeepers if they find out. I've surely missed the laundry, but what about the Quell? Is the bloodbath over?

I hurry downstairs, carrying the painting and the sketchbook now. My jacket is right where I left it - on the hook. As I snatch it off the hook, something flutters to the ground. A piece of paper with the neat, light handwriting that can only be Peeta's.

I can't deal with anymore memories. I've expended my allotment of tears today. So it's with a strange apprehension that I begin to read the words.

 _Dad,_

 _I knew you'd come back for this. I don't know how long it took you to figure out you'd left it here, so I'm not sure whether I'm still alive. I just wanted you to know that I'm thankful for everything you've done. I know I've been short with you these past couple of months. I couldn't let you get attached to me anymore than you already were - it would only make things harder at goodbye. So this is my chance to say thank you for everything. You worked so hard to be the dad that you thought I deserved and I know that.  
_ _I've already told you I'm not coming home, but I'm reminding you again. Katniss will have my protection until my dying breath, but it's her who's coming home. Just like last time only without me.  
_ _Please, don't hold yourself accountable for what's happened. Move on. Remember me, but don't get stuck. This might be the end of the road for us, but it's only for a short while.  
_ _I'll see you on the other side._

 __ _Love always,  
_ _Peeta_

I read the words once, twice, three times. Peeta. My son. He loved me. Doesn't blame me. My throat is preparing for tears again, but I carefully fold the note and put it back in my pocket. A guilty weight leaves my chest, not entirely, but it still feels so much lighter. I didn't get to say goodbye, I failed him in so many ways, but he left me this. A note with words so heartfelt, so carefully selected, that I can't help but tear up, despite my precautions.

 _He's not a word waster._ Haven't I said that from the beginning? He chooses the perfect words for the situation with no fillers or falsities.

My Peeta who knew I'd come back, who left the note in my pocket to reassure me, to comfort me, and to try and absolve me from blame. How did I ever deserve a son like him?

The walk back home is so different than the one there. There's a great sadness and sharp longing in my thoughts, but I realize how pointless it was to shove it down. By hiding it, I made it worse. This is much more preferable than the dull, aching feeling that settled everywhere.

"I'm sorry," I call to my wife as I step through the front door. "I got distracted. But I got the coat. Did anything happen?"

In response, I hear a scream from the TV.

"PEETA, NO!"


	44. Death and a Meltdown

My feet can't get to the living room fast enough. A scream like that can only mean one thing.

It's like one of those nightmares where the scary thing is coming, but you can't seem to move. The tilting world distorts the living room, but the screen is clear as day.

Peeta is on the leafy jungle floor of the arena. Unmoving. Lifeless. Katniss is sprawled over his chest, screaming his name. She shakes him, slaps him, her fingers grope for any signs of breath. Nothing. Her panic intensifies my fear, making everything strangely sharp.

My voice sounds distant, like it's not my own, but I'm pretty sure I'm yelling. "What happened? _What happened_?"

"He ran into the damn force field." My wife's face is very pale, but her voice is harder than a rock.

I've been preparing myself for this moment for months, a year actually. But I expected a fight. A valiantly noble sacrifice. Anything but this.

Katniss has gone from frantic to hysterical. "He's not breathing!" she shrieks. "He's not breathing!"

This makes no sense. How'd this happen so quickly? Peeta is dead, really dead. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are saying something, but not one word transfers to my brain.

Finnick Odair is pushing Katniss aside now. He runs his hands down my son's spine and along his shoulders. When he blocks off Peeta's nose, Katniss loses it. She tries to push the District Four tribute off of my son's body, but he's ready with a fist.

What's he doing? They were allies. Could this be a false alliance, like that of my wife's brother? Is our family doomed to fall into these dangerous, backstabbing arena bonds? It seems the odds are truly not in our favor.

Once she pulls herself together, Katniss nocks and arrow and aims it at Finnick. Go. Let it go! Shoot him! But her arrow never finds its mark.

And suddenly, like when the individual ingredients suddenly become dough, I understand what Finnick is trying to do. I've only seen it done one other time. A fourth year teacher once performed this on a kid whose heart had failed. I find myself as engrossed as Katniss, coming so close to the screen I could touch it. My eyes will Finnick on because I don't trust my voice.

Twelve's only currently alive tribute watches, stricken, like everything depends on this boy's life. Which, for her, maybe it does. Can Odair really bring people back from the dead? Can he pull Peeta back?

"Please Peeta," Katniss begs. "Please wake up. Please wake up, Peeta." If only it were that simple. But she's heaving now, practically hyperventilating. "Please, Peeta." She says it over and over as Finnick continues his rhythmic dance from my son's mouth to his heart.

But it's not working. Surely it's pointless now. I'm so glad I went to the Victor's Village, already figured out my feelings, said goodbye in the primitive way that I could. My hands find the note in my pocket, clutching it. My last piece of Peeta.

Katniss is an accurate display of the emotions currently coursing through my icy veins. He's dead. My son is dead.

I hear a faint voice, like it's coming from a cave. It enters my conscience without registering. Luckily, the words are repeated several times. "He coughed, he coughed! He just coughed!"

What? The camera gets tighter on Peeta's face. The eyes are moving behind their still closed lids.

Katniss flings down her weapons and dives for him, feeling clumsily for a pulse. Her hand brushes away the hair from Peeta's forehead. "Peeta?" Her voice is so desperate, so hopelessly hopeful.

And then his eyes flutter open, the pale lashes catching the sunlight. Good lord. He's alive.

"Holy shit," my wife mutters.

"Careful," Peeta whispers hoarsely. "There's a force field up there."

At this, Katniss makes a choked sound, partly sobbing, partly laughing.

"Must be a lot stronger than the one on the Training Center roof." Peeta's talking, so he must be alright. Sounds okay other than a bit throaty. "I'm alright though. Just a little shaken."

The whole things so insane that I laugh. Because he just died. Literally was gone. Couldn't have been farther from "alright". And yet, those words just left his mouth.

Katniss seems to agree with me. "You were dead," she sobs. "Your heart stopped!" She makes that noise again, the strangled one.

"Well, it seems to be working now," Peeta says. "It's alright, Katniss."

But she's trembling, her body racked with sobs that are wrenched from deep under her ribs. How awful that must have been for her. Worse than it was even for me. She was sitting right there, so useless to the boy that she - well, I'm not quite sure how to describe their relationship. Anyhow, she was completely dependent on an almost stranger to bring him back.

"Katniss?" Peeta's eyes fill with concern because her sobs keep coming. She clings to him, kissing him, needing confirmation that he's actually breathing.

"It's okay." Finnick notices Peeta's quizzical expression. "It's just her hormones from the baby."

Could that be causing this sudden burst of emotion that's so not Katniss? She doesn't sob like this, she doesn't tremble, and certainly she doesn't _cling._ But she did just witness Peeta dying and if she's supposed to be in love, a bit of emotion is in order. Still, this seems like a very dramatic show if it's only an act. No, there's no way that she's pretending here. Those tears, the way she's shivering like a leaf. She's even putting a hand to her mouth in an effort to stop the noises coming from her mouth.

Finnick is staring from one "star-crossed lover" to the other. Probably he's thinking the same thing. This kind reaction isn't acted. It's lived. Which means, one way or another, Katniss cares about my son so deeply that his death brought out her most overwrought feelings, her most vulnerable side. As for the baby - I'm still not sure if it even exists. Maybe it's the hormones, maybe not. I don't have enough information to even begin to make a guess.

"How are you?" Odair asks Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?"

"No." Katniss is still crying. "He has to rest."

Mag, the old woman, hands her a piece of moss to wipe her nose on, which is running nonstop. Mopping the tears off her face and blowing her nose, the girl tries to get a grip. She has to untangle herself from Peeta to wash her face, but she doesn't go far. After a moment, her hands reach for his neck. I worry that we're in for a romantic burst right here in front of the Four tributes, but she just pulls out a golden disk that's hanging on a rope.

"Is this your token?"

"Yes. Do you mind that I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match." Peeta is still ashen faced, but his voice is a little stronger now.

"No, of course I don't mind." The tears seemed to have stopped at last and she can smile at him. There's something more familiar about the smile. A bit false.

"So, you want to make camp here, then?" Finnick pulls them back to the pressing topic at hand.

"I don't think that's an option," my son says. "Staying here. With no water. No protection. I feel all right, really. If we could just go slowly." He doesn't look all right, but he does have a point. They really need a safer spot to stay.

"Slowly would be better than not at all," says Finnick, helping Peeta to his feet. Once there, my son stumbles a little. Katniss catches and steadies him, holding on for just a little longer than what's necessary. They both look pretty bad. Peeta died and Katniss had a huge meltdown. What a way to start off these Games.

Now that the immediate danger has passed, I collapse on the couch. It's okay. He's okay. She's okay. For now, at least, they're not dead. But my son was. His heart had no beat. I wonder how it felt, even for a minute, to be really gone. Not like I'll ever be able to ask him because the permanent death will be in the coming weeks. This was only a preview, but I can see now how truly awful that day will be. There's no preparing for it, no bracing yourself.

"He was dead," I whisper. "He was dead. He was dead. He was _dead."_

My wife takes a few deep breaths before joining me.

"You okay?"

She nods, her teeth clenched. A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Fine," she says through the teeth. "Just watched my son die. What's for dinner?"

"He's okay." I find myself comforting myself as much as I am her. "Peeta's fine. You heard him."

On the screen, Katniss is talking animatedly about the force field. "... it's like when the fence around District Twelve is on, only much, much quieter," she's saying. All the other victors listen, cocking their heads. "There! Can't you hear it? It's coming right from where Peeta got shocked."

Where Peeta died would be more accurate, but she clearly is avoiding that definition.

"I don't hear it, either," Finnick tells her. "But if you do, then by all means, take the lead."

Yeah, because after what happened to Peeta, Finnick isn't in any hurry to hit that force field. Who would revive him?

"That's weird," Katniss tips her head theatrically. "I can only hear it out of my left ear."

"The one the doctors reconstructed?" Peeta confirms.

"Yeah. Maybe they did a better job than they thought." Katniss pauses, thinking. "You know, sometimes I do hear funny things on that side. Things you wouldn't ordinarily think have a sound. Like insect wings. Or snow hitting the ground."

Somewhere, in the Capitol, a group of surgeons are being interrogated. Because Katniss can apparently hear like a bat. Maybe the Capitol will eat this, but I don't believe her. She may have been able to know that force field was there, but it's not her left ear that picked it up.

See, that was a show. Clearly over acted, played. Like she had a script or something. It just makes her panic attack seem much more realistic. Katniss really isn't that great of an actress - there is no way that she was making up those feelings.

So what does that mean? Katniss Everdeen must, in some way, feel very strongly for Peeta. I'm not saying she's in love with him or that the whole star-crossed lovers thing is true because I know it's not. But whatever happened when Peeta was dead broke the barrier hiding Katniss's true emotions. Her breakdown was no act, no over-exaggeration.

Those were real feelings brought on by grief, terror, and relief. This makes the Games a lot more interesting. And a whole lot more dangerous.


	45. Self-Sacrifices

It's just a piece of paper that's seen better days.

My twitchy fingers obsessively folding and unfolding the note have given the thing a cloth-like quality. Despite it being feather light, the creased sheet weighs heavily in my pocket. It's not the kind of thing that people cling to by itself, so without the words written so carefully on its face, it would be worthless. The message from Peeta means more to me than anything else; it makes the grimy piece of paper invaluable. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll take it out and read his note again. And again. And again. It's like having a piece of my son with me again. I can almost hear his voice, reading the words that were one of his greatest talents.

… _I just wanted you to know that I'm thankful for everything you've done…_

… _Please, don't hold yourself accountable for what's happened…_

… _Love always…_

The phrases act like balm, soothing my wounds and easing my aching heart. Peeta who was thankful. Peeta who didn't blame me. Peeta who loved me. And it's not fair because this note is something I'll never be able to repay him for. Ever. It's kept me sane, kept me from shutting out the world.

Right now, it seems that the Gamemakers want to get Peeta as close to death as possible before pulling him back. If he dies early, it's almost like defeat for them. They want his suffering to go on for as long as possible. So, they slam him down at death's door every chance they get, but never let him stay there.

First comes the fog. The coils of white mist that blister upon impact.

Katniss is on watch when the fog hits. Clearly Gamemaker made, the swirls evoke the most awful sounds from their victims.

"Run!" Katniss screams at the slumbering others. "Run!"

Finnick immediately responds, hoisting Mags on his back and taking off. Peeta, on the other hand, is still so weak from dying. His brain doesn't seem to fully process the information until it's almost too late. If it weren't for Katniss, he'd have probably died. Again.

Honestly, how much more can he take? Can our family take? But Katniss has him now, urging him along just ahead of the poisonous gas. The littlest root trips him up and it's like he's still half asleep.

"What's wrong with him? Why can't he run normally?" my wife asks.

"I think it's just leftover fatigue from hitting the force field."

"So he's now disabled in both legs?" she frowns.

"No, I think he's just weak. Still recovering. He's wearing that prosthetic too. He never could quite control that."

As the fog closes in, an ominous wall rushing towards them, I half expect Katniss to run. To escape. Without Peeta inhibiting her, she'd be able to outrun this threat no problem. But she stays right next to my son, helping him over the vegetation and uneven ground. Her fingers lock around his. The action says, "look at us. You can't separate us. I'll stay by him no matter what you throw at us."

My son's artificial leg causes them real problems. Even with two good legs, Peeta would be stumbling from the after effects of the force field. But his prosthetic catches on everything and and it's a wonder that they're able to advance at all.

A new kind of admiration for her forms in my chest. Yesterday, with her response to his death, and now with her determination to stay beside him, Katniss has earned my respect. Here's yet another side of this enigmatic girl. Every time I think I understand her, something else happens. It's humbling, bewildering, and sometimes kind of annoying.

So, they stagger onward, the fog gaining more ground than they.

And the noises, oh the noises. Guttural, anguished, and stabbing. When a droplet finds skin, I can feel their agony through their cries. To hear a child, specifically your child, make noises that no human should ever emit breaks a person. Shreds the soul.

White, oozing blisters swell wherever the fog caresses them. I can see pus and liquid wriggling beneath the translucent bubbles of skin. My gag reflexes work hard to stay inactive.

But of course, it's not enough for the Gamemakers. Whatever chemicals are in that fog must target their nerves, too. Faces sag grotesquely, legs spasm and arms jump around like half-dying fish. It's something out of a horrific dream. And that means Katniss can no longer manage Peeta with her floppy-fish arms.

Finnick, realizing that Katniss and Peeta were having problems, hurries back to them. He hoists Peeta up, but Katniss is forced to carry Mags. She tries her best, but Katniss really isn't that much bigger than the old woman. Between the weight and the uneven terrain, it becomes too much for her. Both go crashing to the ground, the fog not far behind. Odair returns once again, but without the use of his arms. He can't carry both Mags and Peeta.

"Now this is a critical moment," Caesar Flickerman says dramatically. "Finnick Odair can only pick one to save. Will he save his district partner or is Peeta going to get the ride?"

Obviously, Finnick will pick Mags. She's like his family and district partners are always closers than other allies. So, the end is now for Peeta? It's getting to the point where I'm exhausted of thinking he's about to die.

But I'm wrong. What does happen is so fast, so irrational, that there's nothing anyone can do about it. The old woman kisses Finnick, then hobbles into the fog. Straight towards death, just like that. Her body convulses for a few moments before going still.

Finnick is screaming her name, crying. It's like he's adopted Katniss's method of half-craziness. But the fog is advancing, not caring that it just swallowed up a tribute, hungry for more.

Peeta is not functioning, so it's up to Katniss to pull Finnick together and force him to move forward. Right before the camera follows, we get a final, grainy shot of Mags' body. Peeling away in some places and bubbling in others. The camera cuts through the fog to give us full coverage of the disgusting corpse.

What a state the trio is in. They make it just slightly farther before they all collapse on each other. Unable to move. Unable to do anything, really, other than moan. So, will they all go like Mags now? The fog won't stop… or will it? Yes, it's condensing. It won't come any farther - they're out of range.

I lean back and close my eyes. This is going to be a long Quell I can tell. Here's death, oh wait never mind.

Apparently, water draws out the chemicals. The trio drags themselves down to the beach and slump by the water's edge. It's like a reverse effect. The water draws out the fog, along with more horrible sounds from Katniss and Peeta. Once they've purged themselves of poison, our tributes help Finnick, who's still unable to do it himself. In the end, they all strip down to their underclothes - their jumpsuits being so damaged it's not worth putting them back on - but they seem to be almost good as new. Shaken, obviously, and still in shock, but physically they seem to be recovering.

This only confirms my suspicion that the Gamemakers want to keep Katniss and Peeta, and probably Finnick, too, alive until the end. They want to make their deaths very memorable and for that, they must have full use of their arms, legs, and body. Minimal wounds, low damage until the final, bloody showdown of the century. Why else would there be such a convenient, abundant cure?

If the Gamemakers wanted a torturous ride, all they had to do was leave our tributes burned and blistered. They would've had a hard time fending off another attack in the state the fog left them in. But instead, the Gamemakers chose to have something as easily accessible as water draw out the poison they engineered. It was clearly planned out.

"Are they just going to wear their underclothes for the rest of the Games?" my wife asks, appalled.

That's what she's concerned about? "Probably. Why's that a big deal?"

"It's just weird. And even weirder because the boys are extremely muscular. It's almost an unfair advantage for them to gain sponsors."

"Yeah, er- okay." Seriously, of all things to worry about.

In the other locations of the arena, tributes are encountering similar terrors. But the odd thing is, nothing is ever happening at the same time. Maybe the media wants give the rebelling districts special coverage of every gruesome death and all the action as it happens, and so the Gamemakers have orders to spread out the attacks. For whatever reason, they wait until the previous horror has passed to begin a new one. A lightning storm. Giant insects that are no doubt mutts. A torrential downpour of blood.

The other interesting thing is that almost all of the victors seemed to have drifted towards a group. There are three main alliances: the generic Career pack with the tributes from One and Two - Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria, and Brutus. There's a group consisting of the Seven and Three tributes - Johanna, Blight, Wiress, and Beetee. And, of course, the one with the Twelve and Four victors - Katniss, Peeta and Finnick. There are others, scattered around the arena, but for the most part, the camera focuses on one of these three groups. Probably because they contain the crowd favorites.

After just an hour or two of semi-peace, Katniss, Finnick and Peeta run into more trouble. Mutts. Large animals with long fangs and hideous faces. Monkeys, I think. They congregate in the trees, on the branches, silently surrounding the group. There are just too many of them. No amount of strength can defeat them. When the fighting breaks out, it looks bad. No matter how many times they stab the things, more replace the orange-furred demons. And then the mutt launches itself at Peeta, ready to impale him with razor sharp fangs. The others won't get there in time. She, however, does. The female tribute from Six throws herself in front of him, absorbing the blow, the fur, and the teeth.

What the - did she just kill herself? On purpose? To save Peeta or for some other reason?

Caesar and Claudius don't quite know what to make of all these "self-sacrifices".

"Well, um, looks like the accidents tonight will cost the tributes greatly!" Claudius says unconvincingly.

"Yes, 'wrong place, wrong time' really comes into play here. Now, we do know that the victor from Six had a morphling addiction, so she may have been going through withdrawal and wasn't all right in the head, if you know what I mean."

Both men laugh, but it's clearly forced.

"Also, old minds tend to get a bit looney," Caesar continues. "The Four victor just fell prey to her senile weakness and forgot which way she was running!"

They can laugh and try to play it off as a whole big accident but they're not fooling anyone. They know, the districts know. For some reason, people keep committing suicide. There have been two instances tonight where a tribute has willingly embraced death.

I think back to the deaths. Two victors. Mags and the morphing.

Mags had just collapsed with Katniss. Finnick couldn't take her, too. He'd already been carrying Peeta who was carrying his trident. She'd kissed him, then run straight into the fog.

In the morphling's case, she'd just - appeared. Must have been lurking in the trees. The mutt jumped at Peeta and he was trying to get the sheath of arrows for Katniss. The morphling had just put herself in front of him.

These two women had sacrificed themselves tonight, but now I realize another thing. They both gave their lives… to save my son.

They died to save Peeta.


	46. A Bit of Laughter

But _why?_

That's the first thing that comes to mind. Why, out of all the victors, have they chosen to look out for my son? I mean, I would, but obviously I'm biased - I'm his father. Could Katniss have something to do with this? Maybe she convinced the others to save Peeta? There's simply no other explanation. Why are they even picking a tribute to save in the first place? Human instinct is to save yourself. These people are going against everything the Games stand for.

On the screen, the woman who took the mutt's fangs for Peeta lays dying and wheezing on the beach. Peeta and Katniss stay beside her while Finnick watches the trees. In case those rabid monkeys return.

Up close, the victor seems to be twitching, her bone-thin figure sprawled on the sand, her gaunt eyes staring frantically at nothing. Her choice to have drug over food shows in her ribs. A deep sadness washes over me as I watch her struggling to leave this life. Katniss looks a little lost as the woman grips her fingers, but Peeta steps right in. He's so gentle as he speaks, stroking her hair like he does Katniss. He understands that this is simply another dying human being. I think that might be guilt shining in his eyes.

"With my paintbox at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby's skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water."

I can so clearly see every color that he describes. I hope the dying tribute does too. She's watching my son with eerie intensity, hanging on to every word.

"One time," he continues. "I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of colors. One by one. I haven't figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air."

As she draws her final few breaths, the morphling takes her hand, which is covered in blood, and paints a delicate, crimson flower on Peeta's cheek. A thank you. A goodbye.

"Thank you," Peeta murmurs. I can hear how gentle his voice has become and there are tears in his eyes. "That looks beautiful."

I touch my own cheek, overcome by this sweet exchange between strangers. He doesn't even know her name - and I've yet to hear Caesar say it. That bugs me about the announcers. They adore the strong tributes, the beautiful ones, but never the critically disabled or broken. And the ones they adore are really just faking that exterior of champion. The Games don't end when they leave the arena.

Peeta's kindness and his empathy are so rare to see in people these days. It stimulates something in my chest. It takes me a moment to realize it's pride. That's _my_ son. The whole country is watching him treat this shattered, sick, dying woman with the same care he shows everyone else. When the woman's hand drops limply to her side, Peeta takes the dead victor's body in his arms and floats her in the water.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry." He gives her a final stroke, then returns to Katniss for some comfort.

The morphling. Mags. People seemed to be dying all over for him today and I can see on his face that he knows it.

The losses are weighing heavily on the trio. None of them want to move. They're covered in blood, salt and gore; numbness seems to be blocking out their reasoning. So, they clean their weapons, tap a tree, and drink some water in almost silence. Their blisters have begun to scab and all three victors are itching the dark crusty bumps. Eugh.

"Don't scratch," Katniss advises, flexing her fingers hungrily. "You'll only bring infection."

Spending the night on the beach doesn't bode well. In open sight, right in the path of danger, it's a very stupid idea. But it's almost two in the morning and there's not much time left to sleep anyway. My own eyes are heavy, but I can't bring myself to leave the screen. Too much has been happening.

Katniss offers to take watch, but Finnick says he'd rather do it. In the last few hours of the darkness, he allows himself to grieve over Mags. Now that the action has ceased and there's a lull, I realize how much she meant to him.

"Well, we see a very different side of Finnick Odair," Claudius Templesmith says. "Our favorite, beautiful, trident-wielding victor does have a suffering side after all!"

That comment really pushes my buttons. He's _Finnick Odair._ First of all, nothing he'll do will cost him sponsors. Have you seen the guy? Second, are they implying he's weak? The boy lost the person who he treated like his grandmother. He's entitled to a night of grief. On the beach, he whispers a thank you before his hands begin to weave the long grasses into bowls and mats. The moonlight catches the tears sliding down his cheeks. A deep hatred begins to brew for the announcers, even though it's what the Capitol has been doing for years. They're so safe, so removed. How can they sit and say these things?

I catch a few hours of sleep myself after that. I doubt the Gamemakers will send anything else tonight and a few hours are better than nothing.

I expect to miss a little bit of the morning's events, but I don't. When I wake, Katniss and Peeta are still sound asleep, curled up next to each other on the beach. I check in with my older sons, do a few trades at the bakery, then return to the screen. Why? I don't know. It's a powerful magnet and I'm just a tiny particle - everyone in the districts is. We're trapped, glued to the Games, unable to stop watching the horrific things happening to our children.

It isn't until mid-morning that Katniss stirs. Finnick, who hasn't slept at all, is waiting down by the water. His eyes are still rimmed with red, but she pretends not to notice. He's cracking open shellfish with a stone, then letting their messy insides fall into one of the woven bowls. "They're better fresh," he says as she approaches.

"Are they up?" my wife asks, coming into the living room at the sound of voices. It's been a pretty slow morning as far as the Games are concerned, which gives us some time to breathe.

"Yes, Katniss is. Peeta's still asleep, but after everything that happened yesterday, I think it's in order."

"Are the other boys dealing with the bakery?" She comes over and sits next to me.

"Yeah, I said I'd join them again in a bit."

Katniss is examining her scabs from the fog blisters, rinsing them in the water. They must still itch because both she and Finnick are stretching their blood-caked fingers, trying to resist the temptation to claw at their skin again.

"Hey, Haymitch," Katniss snaps as she storms back into the beach. "If you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin."

"Can she do that?" I ask. "Call out to her mentor?" There's not really a _rule_ against it _,_ but I'm not sure the Gamemakers would be too thrilled with her breaking the fourth wall.

"In case you haven't noticed, Katniss really doesn't give a damn about rules. That girl does what she wants when she wants to do it."

That's true. And it seems to have worked because a parachute floats down a moment later.

"About time," Katniss grumbles, but she's smiling so the tone doesn't really seem all that threatening.

Finnick and Katniss open the tube enclosed and begin to smear dark, oily ointment on their their scabs. It must smell because both of them wrinkle their noses. The result is two creatures that could have crawled from the pits of hell. Greyish-green and covered in knobbly scabs. But their faces relax some and they stop fighting the urge to scratch, so I guess the medicine's doing its job. The two seem to be in better moods, too, relieved of the intense discomfort. It turns out Finnick likes to banter almost as much as Katniss.

"Poor Finnick," Katniss croons mockingly as the former surveys his skin in horror. "Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?"

"It must be. The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?"

"Just avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it."

"Not if I keep looking at you."

A question lurks behind my lips, but I can't seem to force it out. There's so many potential consequences. But I need to talk it over with someone. Confirm that it's not all in my head. At last, I make up my mind to just do it. "Have you noticed?" No turning back now.

"Noticed what?" My wife's still focused on the arena where Finnick and Katniss are now trying to scare Peeta by putting their ghastly faces up near his.

"How people keep sacrificing themselves?"

I've gotten her attention. "You saw it too?"

"Yes," I assure her. "First Four, then Six."

"What made them do it, do you think? The announcers seemed convinced it was two coincidences."

"I - I can't -" I gives her a pointed look. I just wanted to see if she'd noticed it, too. She can't forget we're still being watched. There's no harm in _observations,_ but as soon as we start giving opinions we're in trouble. I suddenly realize how dangerous this topic is. Why did I even bring it up?

But my wife's always been a little reckless. "Who cares? They've already taken Peeta. What else can they do to us?"

Lot's of things. I can think of about fifty possibilities right off the top of my head. Kill her. Kill me. Whip us. Take our remaining boys. Burn the bakery. Everything from murder to torture spins itself conveniently behind my eyelids. I try to signal her to stop talking, to shut up.

"Sorry," she mutters, the anger subsiding. "I think that the sacrifices are a coincidence, just like the announcers said. You're out of your mind." The last phrases are said with a monotonous, bored tone that's fooling no one, least of all me.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the Quell. Peeta's awake now, thanks to the two green-grey monsters. Katniss and Finnick are doubled over with laughter, pointing at Peeta's startled and mock disdainful expression. They collect themselves, take another look at his face, then lose it again.

"Not funny," Peeta says, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Katniss is holding onto Finnick to keep herself upright. "You - your face -" she pants in between laughs.

Another parachute arrives with bread just as Katniss and Finnick are finally catching their breath. The recognition of the bread wipes the smile clean of Odair's face as he examines the bread. It's from his district, clearly tinted a seaweed green. But he doesn't voice any of the depressing thoughts that must be circling inside his head. "This will go well with the shellfish."

"Come on," Katniss laces her fingers into Peeta's. "I'll help you put on some medicine, too. It looks awful, but I promise it helps."

"I was hoping for a morning kiss," Peeta says, pretending to be affronted. "Instead I get you two varmints in my face."

Katniss rolls her eyes and opens the tube of ointment. "Prepare yourself, this reeks."

Peeta's scrunches his nose up as she begins to rub a glob of the stuff into his arm. I find myself smiling. He's made that face so many times before - like when he'd have to clean the ovens or when the eggs or milk would arrive spoiled.

Still, a groan of pleasure escapes him as the medicine sinks in. "Oh, it feels so much better," he sighs. "I think I took off a layer of skin last night itching."

"Yeah, my fingers were all bloody," Katniss says, working up the arm. "But apparently, Haymitch didn't take the hint to send us something until I called him out."

"He's probably drunk," Peeta laughs. He glances down at the arm Katniss has almost completely covered. "Looks like I'm dying or something."

"You don't notice it after a while." She squeezes some into his hand. "Here, help me. We've got a lot of skin to cover."

While they slather my son in the ointment, Finnick's skilled fingers finish shelling the shellfish.

Breakfast is the closest thing to a pleasant meal that I've seen so far in the Quell. The trio jokes and crack each other up. For a moment, I forget we're even in the Games at all.

"Your face when we woke you up, Peeta," Finnick reminisces. "You'd have thought we'd attacked you or something."

"Well forgive me, it's not normal to be woken up by decomposing monsters."

They all laugh, licking the juice from the shellfish off their fingers. The sun's already risen high in the pink sky and the ocean laps at the sand. If you ignore the jungle and what's waiting inside, it could be a pleasant day at the beach with friends.

"Do you think we'll scare people off with this nasty stuff?" Finnick holds out his arm like a zombie.

"Maybe," Peeta laughs.

"But doubtful." Katniss takes a sip of water.

Suddenly, all three sit up straight and turn towards a sector of the arena. It's vibrating and trees can be seen crashing down or bending in half. The camera splits and we see water pouring down into the jungle. One of the victors who didn't join a "main alliance" screams and sprints away from the incoming breaker. But the water just scoops her up, throwing her under. It doesn't even matter if you're a strong swimmer now - the magnitude of the wave is too much. The victor gasps, spewing water from her lungs until she can't hold her head above the water any longer. When it hits the existing ocean, the surf comes up far enough to carry away Katniss, Peeta, and Finnick's discarded jumpsuits.

Well, looks like they'll be in their underclothes for the rest of the Games after all.

"Look," my wife points. Another group of people have staggered out onto the wet sand. They're bright red and I immediately recognize them as the Seven and Three alliance. Judging from the color, I assume they've been doused in the blood rain.

"What's happened to them? Why didn't we see?" I ask.

"Oh, they showed it earlier. You were still asleep. They got caught in the blood rain. One of the men, Seven I think it was, hit the force field, but they didn't have a Finnick to save him. Besides, the blood practically suffocated the rest of them. They've been trying to get to the beach ever since."

"Oh." That explains why they look so exhausted. The woman from Three, Wire-something or other, is stumbling around in circles, while her counterpart lays on the sand.

The other girl, the only Seven tribute left, stomps her foot and shrieks in irritation. "Stay still!" she screeches at the deranged woman. "Don't you want me to keep you alive? Because I have no problem killing you now." The girl shoves the Three tribute over, her frustration getting the better of her.

Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta have blended into the tree line and are lurking in the shadows now, looking to one another for a cue. They're too far away to recognize who's arrived and the newcomers all look the same anyway from afar - bloody red.

Finnick is the first to move. His face brightens. "Johanna!" With great bounds, he begins to run for her and the rest of the party.

Great. I guess the temporary relief of supposed friendship and laughter has ended.

We're back to the Games.


	47. Tick, Tock

"Tick, tock. Tick, tock."

"Yeah, we know." Johanna Mason scoffs at the woman from Three who's wandering in hopeless circles muttering the phrase. "Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock."

Nuts? Is that her nickname? She does look a little crazy. At the sound of Johanna's voice, her feet stumble over each other in that direction.

"Just stay down, will you?" Johanna looks disgusted as she shoves the victor to the ground.

Katniss seems bothered by her treatment of - Wiring? Wiresis? "Lay off her!"

That only earns her a slap to the face, which looks like it hurts. There's the red outline of Johanna's hand imprinted on Katniss's cheek.

"Holy crap, that looks painful," my wife says.

"I don't think Johanna likes contradiction. She sort of strikes me as -" I pause. There's a strange sound coming from the screen. It sounds like… crunching. Maybe boots rhythmically pounding on gravel. And then it hits me. That's not coming from the screen.

"Honestly, District Seven needs to - well, what's gotten into you?"

Because now I've gotten up and pulled the curtain aside just barely so that I can peek out. Peacekeepers. A formation of about six of them are marching up to one of the houses just down the way. They rap on the door and a shutter flaps. The door is opened promptly afterwards. When the Peacekeepers show up at your door, you open it as fast as you possibly can.

Even from a distance, I can see that the woman who greets them is scared. Instantly, I'm reminded of my own recent encounter with the white-uniforms when they came looking for Peeta to question him about Katniss.

"What is it?" my wife asks again, coming to join me at the open window.

"Stay back," I tell her, pulling the curtain almost completely over the window so that we aren't so obvious. Only a small strip is left for us to peer out.

I missed what the Peacekeepers said, but the words evoke a cry of pain from the woman that echoes through the street and the square.

"Please, sir," she shrieks. "He had nothing to do with it, I swear! He wasn't even on their shift!"

"Ma'am," the Peacekeeper's voices rise and now it's all too easy to understand their words.

"Please, you have to believe me! He'd never do something like that!"

"Perhaps he didn't know the consequences for arming a group of civilians and inciting rebellious actions!"

"He did," the woman is sobbing. "He knows, he knows!"

"His shift blatantly defied orders and attempted to turn on the Peacekeepers watching their unit. It didn't work, the poor attempt was highly detrimental to the day's quota, and did nothing more than make them traitors to the country." One of the Peacekeepers raises his gun to a slightly more threatening position.

"I already told you, he wasn't on that shift!" the woman insists. "He went in late today so that he could help me take care of our cat's new litter of kittens."

"Where's the evidence? Where're the witnesses? He's in custody until he can be proven innocent. You and the rest of your family will be brought in for questioning. Please gather your household and come with us."

Two small children poke their heads around their mother's skirt. "Cypress, Aster," the woman says. "Tell them that your brother went to work late today."

The children stare up at the Peacekeepers, bewildered.

"Where's Blaze?" the little girl asks.

"Honey, his mine shift did a bad thing today." There's a note of controlled hysteria in her mother's voice now. "But he wasn't there. Tell them, honey. Blaze was home with us."

"Where's my brother?" the little girl asks the Peacekeepers.

"Answer the question," one of them barks. "Was your brother home today?"

A cat, clearly well-loved, saunters out onto the steps, past the Peacekeepers, and into the street. No kittens follow her, though. In fact, that's a male. The Peacekeepers all exchange glances, pointing at the cat, working it out for themselves.

The boy - Cypress - darts out after the animal before anyone can stop him, causing his mother to screech. "Cypress, Cypress, no! Come here!"

Cypress makes a move to scoop up the cat, but it evades him neatly. Now it's the woman's turn to push past the Peacekeepers. She's in the street now, begging and trying to drag her son back inside. "Darling, come. They need us to answer some questions. Leave the cat alone. It'll be okay."

"Ma'am!" One of the Peacekeepers fully raises her gun. "Ma'am, you're in our custody until we say you're free to go. If you won't come willingly, we'll have to use force."

"Let me just take care of the cat, then we will come with you, I promise!" she pleads, still gripping young Cypress's arm.

In one swift motion, a Peacekeeper raises his gun and shoots a bullet through the cat's head. The shot rattles the square. "There," he grunts. "Taken care of. Now come with us."

The children both begin to scream, but the woman has no choice but to drag them forward. The Peacekeepers surround the family and begin to march them towards the Justice Building. Little Cypress and Aster's cries bounce of the walls of the houses and shops, shooting through veins and turning my blood to ice. My eyes catch the movements of shutters and curtains in the houses across the way and I know people have seen the whole thing. Or heard it. The whole ordeal probably took eight minutes tops.

The Peacekeepers. The woman's insistence that her son is innocent. The children. The cat. The terrified faces of the family are still vividly replaying in brain long after the Justice Building doors slam.

 _Arming civilians and inciting rebellion._

I thought the crackdown had silenced any rebellious voices. Surely the gruesome punishments would deter any possible rebels, any stirrings of uprising. But look at my wife. The Peacekeepers have subdued her, but not squashed her thoughts. Those never go away - never have, never will. I guess there's still a few people in the mines who feel the same way. And looking at the still twitching body of the mottled cat lying in the road, I can't blame them.

My wife's face is set in grim lines of hatred. She doesn't need words for me to know what she's thinking. The parallels of her own older brother and the way he was taken into the Justice Building. The only difference is that she didn't have a mother to try and keep her safe.

This harsh reminder of the bleak world we live in makes the the Quell that much more harrowing. We get it. No rebellion. No talk. Just act the like machines for the Capitol that we are. Produce coal. That's our one job. It's not like we can even set foot outside our houses anymore without getting eyed by the white-clad authorities. To them, everyone is a possible perpetrator. Everyone is capable of spreading the unrest. There's a general atmosphere of fragile control that could burst with just one toe out of line.

I try to settle back into the Quell, to think of something other than the rebellion. Our tiny world is both expanding and crashing down at the same time. In the arena, everyone except Katniss and Johanna are asleep. I think maybe they've worked out whatever's between them, but it's no good.

"How'd you lose Mags?" Johanna asks. It might just be me, but she sounds slightly accusing. Like she thinks it's Katniss's fault.

"In the fog," Katniss replies stiffly, staring out to sea. "Finnick had Peeta. I had Mags for awhile. Then, I couldn't lift her. Finnick said he couldn't take them both. She kissed him and walked right into the poison."

"She was Finnick's mentor, you know." Yes, she's definitely implicating that it was Katniss's fault.

"No, I didn't."

"She was half his family."

There's a tense silence as both girls follow the waves with their eyes.

"So what were you doing with Nuts and Volts?" Katniss asks finally.

"I told you - I got them for you. Haymitch said if we were to be allies I had to bring them to you. That's what you told him, right?"

Oh. I guess this alliance had been set up from the beginning. There aren't three main alliances - just two. They haven't merged, they've reunited. It makes me feel a little better to know that this was planned. For some reason, it seems like they're in control - not the Gamemakers. It's a foolish illusion, I know, but still.

"Thanks," Katniss says grudgingly. "I appreciate it."

"I hope so." Well, isn't she just a ray of sunshine.

"And it looks like Wiress has risen," Caesar Flickerman says. "Let's see how Johanna handles this tribute who she's threatened to kill multiple times in the past few trying hours."

"Tick, tock," Wiress ( _that's_ her name) murmurs.

"Oh, goody, she's back." Johanna throws up her arms. "Okay, I'm going to sleep. You and Nuts can guard together." The Seven tribute flops down next to Finnick and immediately drifts off. She must have been more tired that she let on. How could she not be?

"Tick, tock."

Katniss eases the woman into a more comfortable position in front of her, soothing her with a gentle stroking. I bet she learned that from Peeta. Wiress continues to doggedly mutter her phrase.

"Tick, tock," Katniss repeats quietly. "It's time for bed. Tick, tock. Go to sleep."

Somewhere across the water, a lightning storm starts up. Just like it did last night.

Everything seems to be at peace for awhile. The victors sleep while Katniss watches, her hand patting Wiress and her brain a thousand miles away. Mine wanders back to the previous dark thoughts. Rebellion. Guns. Mindless killing. Empathy is one of the things I admire most about Peeta. The Peacekeepers, the Capitol, they lack it.

 _Tick, tock, rebel you must not._

"Tick, tock," Wiress echoes my thoughts in a whisper about an hour later.

For some reason, Katniss stops stroking the woman's arm. Slowly, she pushes the victor off of her and stands. Her eyes scan the arena for… what?

"Tick, tock," Wiress says again, stirring on the ground.

The lightning stops in one sector, triggering the blood rain in the next.

"Oh," Katniss breaths. "Tick, tock. Tick, tock. This is a clock."

"And there it is, folks!" Claudius booms. "The first tribute to understand the design of this arena! It is, indeed a clock!"

Oh. _Oh._ It all makes sense. The sectors. The pattern. I knew something was up. The way one Gamemaker horror didn't start until the other had finished. A clock.

As the understanding dawns, Katniss begins to rouse the others. "Get up," she says. "Get up - we have to move."

"Huh?" Finnick mumbles groggily. "Wha - what is it?"

"We have to move!" Katniss shakes Peeta. "Come on, Peeta, get up."

Everyone rubs their eyes and tries to get their bearings, trying to decipher Katniss's motives through their sleepy fog.

"What's going on?" Peeta asks. "Katniss?"

"This whole arena's set up like a clock," she says. "With a new threat every hour." As she launches into an explanation, the group begins to collect their possessions and ready themselves for a relocation.

"Tick, tock!" Wiress is awake again.

"Yes, tick, tock, the arena's a clock. It's a clock, Wiress, you were right. You were right." Katniss consoles the woman which seems to have an immediate effect.

Wiress is no longer as agitated. She seems almost relieved that someone had figured it out. "Midnight."

"It starts at midnight," Katniss agrees.

Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are beside themselves with excitement.

"Well, if I'd had to bet on which group would figure it out first, my money would have been on this one. They're all so smart, so incredibly strong."

Oh, really? Because weren't you just criticizing Finnick for crying over Mags? As long as our victors are playing to the Capitol standards, they get plenty of praise. A game, it's all a game.

Katniss and Johanna are going at it again.

"I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were … what, again? Getting Mags killed off?"

This ignites something in Katniss and she goes rigid, her hand tightening on her knife. I can see her fighting to remain neutral.

"Go ahead," Johanna taunts. "Try it. I don't care if you are knocked-up, I'll rip your throat out."

For a moment, I'm worried that she'll do just that, but luckily, Finnick steps in and breaks it up. "Maybe we all had better be careful where we step." He shoots Katniss a look, which is completely unfair.

Johanna's comment reminds me that Katniss is supposedly pregnant. It must also remind the announcers because they launch into a rant about the way she's been holding up and whether she's been different from the other Games. I tune them out because I've really had it with the announcers today.

The six victors in our alliance make their way to the Cornucopia, half carrying Beetee from Three and practically steering Wiress, but otherwise intact.

My son looks much better now with some rest and not nearly as muddled as he was after hitting the force field. He lays Beetee in the shade, then calls Wiress over to him.

"Hey." Peeta takes the coil of Wire that Beetee's hardly let out of his sight and gives it to Wiress. "Clean it, will you?"

Again, my son knows just how to make people feel important. Needed. Johanna detests Wiress and even though Katniss takes her under her wing, she still treats her like a child, but Peeta's given her a _job._ Something to do. You can see the happiness light up in the victor's eyes as she scurries to the water to carry out the request.

Wiress begins to sing in a lilting, jumpy voice. It's a very simple song, but she's nice and busy which pleases her immensely.

" _Hickory Dickory Dock,_

 _The mouse ran up the clock._

 _The clock struck one,_

 _The mouse ran down!_

 _Hickory Dickory Dock."_

"Oh not the song again," Johanna sighs. "That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking."

" _Hickory Dickory Dock,_

 _The dog barked at the clock,_

 _The clock struck three,_

 _Fiddle-de-dee,_

 _Hickory Dickory Dock!_

 _Hickory Dickory Dock,_

 _The bird looked at the clock,_

 _The clock struck two -"_

Abruptly, Wiress stops her song and stands straight up. "Two," she says, pointing to the beach from where they just came.

"Yes, look," Katniss says. "Wiress is right. It's two o'clock and the fog has started."

"Like clockwork," Peeta says. "You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress."

A strange emotion begins to form as I watch this group. There's no word for it, no way to describe it. All I know is that I don't want any of them to die. Last Games, I didn't care who had to be killed if my son came home, but this time … they're all friends! Finnick, Katniss, Peeta, Beetee, Wiress, and heck, even Johanna, they're in this together. Yet, at one point, they'll all have to turn. Fight each other. _Kill_ each other. The thought is unbearable. This year, these victors all feel like they're from my district. There's no longer any "us and them". I want them all to live. But it's useless to wish this because there can only be one.

Peeta has scratched out a map of sorts on a smooth leaf. He's drawn it from an aerial view with all the wedges of the arena. The spokes jut out from the Cornucopia, where they are, and there are two circles, one representing the water and the other the tree line. With his artistically straight, perfect lines, the complicated arena suddenly looks simple. Easy to understand. And that's bad. The Gamemakers will not want the Games to become beatable or easy. It's only a matter of time before something happens to throw them off.

"Well, this group is certainly bright," Claudius remarks. "Look at how quickly they've grasped this concept. They knew how to get away from that sector where the fog was headed… we'll see how the Gamemakers compensate."

"Yes, if you look at Peeta's map, you can the depth of their understanding," Caesar agrees as the camera zooms in on my son's drawing. "It's really one of the things that we've said all along. This group is made up of strong victors and they are strongest together. They have come up with an explanation and it's really putting them ahead of the other tributes."

The camera suddenly moves to a tight shot of Wiress, who's still singing and intensely focused on rinsing that coil of wire.

" _Hickory Dickory Dock,_

 _The cat ran round the -"_

The song stops and the camera moves in even tighter. Which means we get a perfect view of the knife that slits her throat.


	48. Jabberjay Screams

Mayhem.

Absolute mayhem.

The Careers snuck up on our group without detection. How? We have two more people than they do- well, one now because Wiress is good as dead. But still, everyone was too focused on Peeta and his map. My son does have a way of captivating audiences, but that's hardly an excuse. Someone needed to be on watch.

Cashmere and Gloss are dead before they know what hit them. Which, in actuality, was an arrow and an axe blade.

A large, muscle bound tribute with a murderous snarl on his face hurls a spear right at Peeta, but Finnick steps to block it - gaining a knife in the thigh.

Three cannons burst open the afternoon, signaling the official deaths of the siblings from One. At least they went together. But it also means that Wiress is dead. Ingenious Wiress who figured out the arena's secret, which benefited our tributes enormously. I close my eyes for a moment to push back the despair.

The Two tributes are sprinting away from the golden horn now. They were outnumbered in the first place, but now it'd be a joke to continue attacking. Their alliance has been halved. They're lucky that the Gamemakers intervene or our allies may have caught them, too.

It's a much-expected disorientation, true, but I think the Gamemakers know that once the Careers are dead, there's really no fight left except the inter-alliance one. Which will be, if possible, more atrocious than the first. So, in some room far removed, they hit a button and the land around the Cornucopia begins to spin.

So this is how the Gamemakers are switching things up. As the island picks up speed, the victors grit their teeth as they grab for anything, any kind of hold. Several bodies flop into the water, but I'm pretty sure they're corpses. When the land finally slams to an abrupt stop, our entire alliance looks green. They cough and wince, trying to stand without stumbling. But a bigger problem than retrieving their balance arises because they now have no idea which way the clock faces.

Katniss pauses for a moment, then dives out into the water with a "cover me".

She swims out to the body I know to be Wiress. There, clutched in the wax-like hands, is the coil of wire Peeta gave her to wash. The one that meant so much to Beetee, her district partner. The water around Wiress is stained with watery red patterns, stemming from the wound in her neck. Like delicate spider webs, they lace the water; their fraying lines reaching for Katniss.

She fights through the strange calm and prys the coil from the death grip. I think of those final moments. The prickle of incoming danger. The wire digging into flesh before the blackness seeps in. Katniss helplessly surveys the body of her ally. Gently, she closes the woman's unseeing eyes and swims away, unable to do anything else.

Back on the beach, Katniss seems to be a little shaken. Her eyes are wide and even though she keeps an unyielding expression of determination, I know she's suffering. Walking over to Peeta, she wraps her arms around him protectively. She's the only one with a district partner left and must feel the need to keep him away from harm. Peeta's face shows brief surprise before he leans against her, allowing her to hold him.

"I'm not saying I'm glad Three is dead," my wife says. "But she did inhibit the group. Slowed them down. They'll have a better chance without her."

I turn, appalled. "How can you say that? She was one of the smartest victors! Besides, aren't you connecting with these victors? Don't you feel like they're all from Twelve? I didn't want any of them to die, not even Wiress!"

"That's what the Capitol wants!" my wife insists. "Right there. They want you to get attached to these people so that when they die, you'll be torn apart. It's all part of their show of power!"

I bite the inside of my lip so hard it bleeds. She's probably right, but that doesn't change how I feel. I hate that these people have to die. _Hate_ it.

"I need to do some work in the bakery," I say, abruptly standing. "I'll be back in a bit."

She's knows I'm escaping. That I don't want to think about those things right here, right now. And to be honest, I don't care. The bakery is the one place where I can be myself. Feel what I want to feel. Today, though, it's just too close to the Capitol. I can still hear the announcers, feel the eyes of some unknown person watching. I have to get out. So, I gather up a bundle of bread and make for the road. I've been meaning to do this for awhile, but have backed out every time the chance presented itself.

My feet find the road to the Victor's Village just like they have so many times before. But this time, I pass Peeta's house and keep going until I arrive at hers. At Katniss's.

Even if I couldn't let Katniss herself know how grateful I was to her for taking care of Peeta, I should let her mother know. I'll admit, I have no idea what our victor's personal relationship is like. Lovers? Friends? Something in between? There's not really a word for it. Thrown together by survival and death, yet managing to get each other through it. All I know is that Peeta wouldn't have been able to cope with surviving the Games without her presence.

It's been a very long time, over fifteen years, since I last spoke with this woman other than a nod at the bakery or in the square. I wonder how awkward it will be.

I knock before realizing I haven't planned out what I'm going to say. Quickly, I try to come up with a few words. Just "here's some bread, thanks for your daughter" doesn't really sound right. She needs to understand the depth of my gratitude. Peeta would know the perfect thing to say, but I'm not him.

The door opens before I can piece anything together. It's not Katniss's mother, though. It's Primrose. She's really grown up in these last few months. You can see it in the way she holds herself and the sadness in her eyes. The Games affected everyone, not just out victors.

"Hello." She looks puzzled, noticing the bread. "We didn't -"

"I know," I say quietly. "This is just a gift."

"Oh!" She smiles a little, taking me back to the schoolyard. Primrose really does look just like her mother.

Just then, a bloodcurdling scream echoes from the living room. There's a delayed jolt as I realize what it's from.

"That'll be the Quell," Prim says, her eyes wide. She motions me inside and we make for the screen.

Katniss's mother comes in from the kitchen, her face pale. We all heard the scream. We know what it means. Death. Torture. Suffering.

But the odd thing is, the scream seems oddly familiar. Where have I heard that voice?

" _Katniss,"_ an unseen voice shrieks from the jungle. " _Katniss, help!"_

Katniss, who was guarding Finnick while he tapping a tree, takes off. Her face drains of any color as she crashes through the jungle. "Prim!" she screams. "Prim!"

Primrose looks at her mother helplessly. "What's happening? Why's she yelling my name?"

Those screams… they're Prim's! Yet, they can't be because she's standing right here. "It's a trap," I realize. "Gamemaker made."

Only now does her mother realize I'm here. Her eyes are questioning, but Katniss is still screaming. Like when Peeta hit the force field, I know her world is crashing down.

Katniss has entered a clearing now, her eyes searching for the source of the terrible sounds.

"Prim!" She looks up, insanely searching the canopy. "Prim?"

"Katniss!" Prim goes to the screen, pressed her hand up against it. "Katniss, I'm here! I'm safe!"

Her sister has nocked an arrow now and when it flies, I see what's been emitting the sound.

"A jabberjay," Katniss's mother says in a whisper. "They used a jabberjay."

Prim is looking at her sister helplessly. "I'm okay, Katniss. I'm okay."

Katniss is still very, very pale. She's panting, whether from fear or exertion, I don't know. She picks up the limp body of the bird and murder crosses her face. Her fingers wrap around it's neck, wringing it, before she launches it into the jungle.

Finnick, looking incredibly panicked, comes racing to her aid. "Katniss?"

"It's okay," she sighs. "I'm okay. I thought I heard my sister, but -"

The screaming starts up again. But it's not Prim this time.

Finnick loses his comforting demeanor instantly. Just like Katniss, he goes pale.

"Finnick, wait!" Katniss grabs her him, but it's too late. "Finnick!"

"Annie!" the tribute from Four screams. "Annie! Annie!"

She must know that the only way to calm him is to kill the bird because Katniss locates the source and begins to scale a tree. The jabberjay plummets from the branches, standing no chance against her arrows. Finnick makes the connection between the screams and the mutt, but it doesn't seem to make him feel any better.

"It's all right, Finnick," Katniss says. "It's just a jabberjay. They're playing a trick on us. It's not real. It's not your… Annie."

"No," Finnick whispers hoarsely. "It's not Annie. But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?"

"Oh, Finnick, you don't think they…"

"Yes. I do. That's exactly what I think."

For a moment, I'm confused. Then, I realize what they think has happened.

"Do they think that I was tortured to get those sounds?" Prim asks, her voice going high.

"I - I think so," her mother sighs. She steps forward, wrapping her arms around Primrose.

The Gamemakers. How _could_ they? Katniss looks like she might faint because she thinks her little sister was tortured to get the sounds. She sinks to ground, her knuckles white. But Prim is right here. Alive! Not injured in any way!

"Katniss, no," Prim gasps. "Mom, she has to get away! Why doesn't she run?"

The camera switches and we see Peeta, Beetee, and Johanna looking at each other, panicked.

"Where did they go?" Peeta says urgently. "Johanna, where did they go?!"

"Don't look at me, brainless!" she snaps. "You heard the scream. Your fianceé took off and Finnick followed."

"Perhaps they left a trail." Beetee straightens his glasses, moving more slowly than the others.

"Well don't just stand there!" Peeta cries. "There could be anything in there!" He runs forward as if to dash into the jungle, but smacks into some invisible wall.

Johanna curses and smacks the invisible barrier. "They're stuck."

"You mean we can't get to them?" Peeta is starting to panic. "You heard those screams!"

"Nothing we can do," Beetee sighs. "This must be another weapon. Four o'clock."

On the other side of the wall, another bird is starting to scream. It's a lower, more anguished scream than the two previous high ones. Gale. He sounds just like he did when Thread whipped him.

Finnick grabs Katniss and pulls her to her feet. She fights him, trying to reach the screams.

"No," Finnick says through gritted teeth. "It's not him. We're getting out of here! It's not him, Katniss! It's a mutt! Come on!"

She's not listening, her instincts taking over as she struggles to evade his grasp. Finnick has to resort to carrying Katniss, dragging her back the way they'd come. At last, she comes to her senses and begins to run alongside him. They've almost reached the barrier. In fact, they can see the others now. What they don't know is that they're trapped.

The camera splits so we can hear and see what's going on inside both sections. Peeta has his hands pressed up against the wall, screaming for Katniss to stop.

"They can't hear us!" Johanna says. "They're stuck in there until the hour's up."

It's no good. Katniss and Finnick slam into the invisible wall at full speed, which throws Katniss's shoulder and blood gushes from Finnick's nose.

Peeta tries to stab the wall and even Johanna swings her ax into it a few times. Useless. The facts sink in and Katniss puts her palms up to meet Peeta's. Their foreheads touch the wall in the same place. The star-crossed lovers separated by a wall that seems much thicker than it is.

"Katniss," Peeta's muttering. "Katniss, it's okay. It's okay."

She stares at him cravingly, as if he's the only thing keeping her sane. Indeed, there's a wild look in her as that even Peeta can't dissolve.

When the birds arrive, Finnick loses it. He crouches on the ground, his hands covering his ears, trying desperately to block out the heinous sounds coming from the animals. Katniss empties her quiver, firing arrow after arrow into the feathery demons, but eventually gives up, too. Seeing Katniss and Finnick so hopeless, so wounded by sounds alone, is horrifying. But my son's agony on the other side is almost as bad.

"IT'S NOT REAL!" he screams, pounding on the wall. "IT'S NOT REAL, KATNISS! THEY'RE MUTTS!" His face is contorted in such pain. He can't reach her. She can't hear him. All he sees her tormented figure.

Johanna looks worried, but she doesn't bother banging on the wall. She knows that there's nothing to do but wait.

As the hour crawls by, I stand in the Everdeen's living room like a statue. None of us move or speak. The abominable images on the screen have paralyzed us. Time is meaningless now.

"Katniss!" Peeta's voice is hoarse. "Katniss, the hour's almost up. They're just mutts, I promise!"

"If my calculations are correct," Beetee mutters. "Then the wall should disappear in three, two, one…"

My son's been leaning on the wall, letting it support him, so when it melts away, he stumbles forward into the sector. The birds flap away, leaving a few dark feathers to drift lazily to the ground. Peeta beelines for Katniss's rigid body, pulling her onto his lap.

"Shhhh, you're alright," he whispers soothingly, rocking her like a small child. "It's okay. The mutts are gone. I've got you now."

Johanna isn't as touchy-feely with Finnick. She pats his back awkwardly and just sits next to him.

Both Finnick and Katniss take a long time to stir, having been in the same tense position for so long. When Katniss finally regains some mobility, her whole body begins to shiver.

This increases Peeta's pain tenfold. "It's all right, Katniss," he murmurs.

"You didn't hear them," she moans pitifully.

"I heard Prim." My son begins to rub her shoulders, trying to release the tension. "Right at the beginning. But it wasn't her. It was a jabberjay."

"It was her," Katniss insists. "Somewhere. The jabberjay just recorded it."

"No," Prim speaks for the first time in awhile. "No, I'm fine! They didn't take me!"

"No," Peeta echoes steadily. "That's what they want you to think. The same way I wondered if Glimmer's eyes were in the mutt last year. But those weren't Glimmer's eyes. And that wasn't Prim's voice. Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something and distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying."

"No, they were torturing her. She's probably dead." Katniss sounds so hollow, as if those birds killed her spirits. This attack was just as brutal as the fog and the monkeys, just as damaging. Only physical wounds heal.

"Katniss," Peeta is still saying patiently. "Prim isn't dead. How could they kill Prim? We're almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?"

"Seven more of us die," Katniss whimpers.

Here in the living room, Prim makes a similar sound. "She'll believe him, right? He'll make her see I'm not hurt?"

No one answers. I certainly hope so.

"… what happens? At the final eight?" my son is saying. We're already almost down to the final eight? Good gracious.

"At the final eight?" Katniss asks. "They interview your family and friends back home."

Oh, right. We have that to look forward to.

"That's right," Peeta lets his hands run down her arm. "They interview your family and friends. And can they do that if they've killed them all?"

"No?" Katniss still sounds so unsteady, like a kid wanting so badly for something to be true.

"No. That's how we know Prim's alive. She'll be the first one they interview, won't she."

Prim is ghostly white, watching her sister suffer at the hands of her phantom torture. She doesn't seem to happy at the thoughts of the interviews either.

So, in answer to Prim's earlier question, yes. Peeta is able to make Katniss realize that it was a trick. Finnick seems to be a bit more reassured, too. Even Beetee contributes by explaining a technique they learn in District Three to distort voices. Johanna Mason starts to say something, but the camera cuts away to a shot of the Career pack, which is really only the Two tributes now.

Katniss's mother approaches me now that the whole thing is over, studying me quizzically.

"Mom, he brought us bread. As a gift," Prim says.

"Thank you." She takes the bread, still looking for further explanation.

"I didn't get a chance to tell Katniss that -" I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. "That I'm so grateful for the comfort she brought to my son." It's all I can manage, but she seems to understand. It's not like we can talk freely here anyway because if the bakery is bugged, this house is without a doubt being monitored.

"Thank you. He helped her, too. More than you know." Her soft voice is just like I remember it, but unlike before, I don't feel a stab of longing. Our paths were never meant to join. "Even now, with those birds," she continues. "No one's been able to comfort her like that since… since her father died."

We stand in silence for awhile before I turn to go.

"Goodbye." She says, pulling Prim in close.

The whole walk home, those birds shrieks ring in my ears.


	49. Beach Kisses

From the moment Katniss and Peeta volunteered to take watch together, I knew we were in for a romantic scene. These kind of things need buildup and I've been conditioned to notice the signs.

I've noticed something else, too. The chemistry between them this year seems more… lifelike. Not the fake, fluffy stuff that happened last year, but something tangible. Alive. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it.

Katniss and Peeta sit with their hips and shoulders touching, looking in opposite directions. My son has his eyes on the humming jungle while Katniss watches the gentle waves brush the shore, then retreat. There's an illusion of peacefulness, of solitude as the others sleep. It's the first time they've been really alone with each other since the gong rang out.

Although she's pulled herself together remarkably well, there's still a trembling air of fear around Katniss that I know has to do with the jabberjay attack. Peeta keeps taking concerned glances at her. She makes a decision and rests her head on his shoulder, letting him run his hands through her tangled, acid-burned hair. I feel a shiver of electricity run through me as I look at Peeta's face. There's a deep sadness there because he understands Katniss only needs him when she's broken down, yet I know his hands will be there for her every time.

"Katniss," he says gently after a while. "There's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do."

A shadow crosses her face, but she stays quiet.

"I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promised as well," my son continues in his simple, solemn way. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us."

Lies. Deceit. The foundation of the Games. Yet, it seems their mentor has been weaving some of these tangled webs himself. Peeta's saying he made two deals. To promises to save another. Only one can be carried out, so the question remains: which promise does Haymitch intend to follow through with, if any?

Katniss lifts her head off Peeta's shoulder and looks him straight in the eye. "Why are you saying this now?"

"Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are," my son replies. "If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life. I would never be happy again."

In that moment, I know he's speaking from the depths of his heart, trying desperately to convey his feelings to her that he's harbored for so long. Not for the Games, not for the audience. This is how Peeta really feels. He wouldn't be happy, I know. I got a taste of that when he first came home and discovered she'd spun the whole romance. Peeta needs Katniss. Period. Perhaps more than ever now that they've been through the Games. She's his lifeline, his reason for being. If she dies in this arena, so will he.

"But-"

He puts a finger to her lips, silencing her. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living."

In his mouth, the words make sense. As he pulls out the necklace that's been around his neck since the Games began, the viewers finally see what it really is. A locket containing the pictures of the people Katniss loves most.

That's why he brought this up now. She still has their screams ringing in her ears. He's appealing to her emotions while her defenses are down because once she builds them back up, there's no hope of getting through again. That explains all the concerned glances and hesitation. He knew it was the perfect time, yet couldn't bring himself to cause her more pain.

As Katniss lets her eyes roam on the faces of Prim, her mother, and Gale, her shoulders sink and her face, if possible, becomes more agonized. Those faces are all it takes to remind her of everything she has to lose. Of everything she could have

"Your family needs you, Katniss." There's definite sadness in Peeta's voice, too. Her family and his picture isn't one of them. He intends to die so she can return to these people. I wonder how the Everdeens are taking this. It's not just sacrifice, it's the ultimate gift. He's giving her a chance.

Katniss is completely engrossed in the photos. They're small, yet capture the perfect snapshots. Her mother and sister laughing alongside Gale. He doesn't smile very often, but my son's found the one picture he is. No more fear. No more grief. He's offering Katniss a life with her family full of joy. All she has to do is let him die.

Peeta's watching her face, looking for any sign of understanding. "No one really needs me," he says simply.

That's also truly how he feels. Maybe not in the books or numbers, but he brings something to the family. A light. We _do_ need him, but there's no point in wallowing in the loss. We won't get him back. I knew it before, but now I'm positive. His words are heart-wrenching, beautiful, and true to their bitter cores. If he came home, it wouldn't be Peeta. His spirit will die with Katniss.

But Katniss seems to be thinking along the same lines. It might just be leftover anguish from the jabberyjays, but something new flickers in their stormy depths. Pain. Longing. "I do," she says. "I need you."

This wasn't part of Peeta's plan. He wants to believe her so badly, I can see it in his wounded eyes. That Katniss needs him. That Katniss loves him. It's such an uncharted, terrifying territory - the thought that she might actually have feelings for him, however complicated - so he attempts to go back to where he's comfortable. With words. But Katniss seems to have embraced descending into the unknown because she cuts him off with a kiss.

Not just a light brush of lips, but a hard, hungry connection. One of those embraces you can actually see the sparks fly. A new kind of fear shows up in Peeta's eyes. He resists her efforts at first, still trying to get back to the safe ground of words, but eventually, the pull is too strong. He falls into the kisses with a strange moan of longing. Once he commits, they intensify. It's no longer Katniss and Peeta, but one body, one being, wrapped around each other for dear life. Peeta pulls her in closer, holding her damaged body to his. This is no act. This kiss, right here, is without a doubt real.

Do I think they're in love? I'm not sure. All I know is that this kind of heat can't be generated by scripts and manipulation. Katniss has her eyes shut, reveling in the newness of it all.

The announcers are silent, and the camera isn't going anywhere. The entirety of Panem is holding their breath as they watch this… this… what do you call this? Seconds stretch to minutes which pretend they're hours. The whole time Peeta keeps Katniss as close to him as their bodies will allow. He needs her. She needs him. I almost wish I could draw a curtain, protect them from the harm of the Capitol. This is their moment and theirs alone.

The first crack of the lightning storm is what finally finally slows the kisses. They pull apart like sticky caramel, still halfway wishing it didn't have to end. Katniss stays in Peeta's arms, though, letting the breeze move her sweaty hair off her back. There's fear and craving in my son's face as he holds this girl who he loves. Has always loved. What did they just do? How did a conversation turn, so quickly. I can see him trying to sort through what's for the Games and what's for themselves.

The bolt wakes Finnick as well. He cries out, sitting up as his eyes fly open. Still lost in his nightmare, it takes him a moment to put things together. "I can't sleep anymore," he sighs. "One of you should rest." Then, he gets it. He sees the way Katniss is practically on Peeta's lap. The fervent blush creeping up their cheeks. "Or both of you," he shrugs. "I can watch alone."

"No," Peeta says. "It's too dangerous. I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." He takes her by the hand, helping her to a stand, then leads her gently over to sand where the others slumber. He slips the locket around her neck, resting a hand on her abdomen. "You're going to make a great mother, you know." With one last, soft kiss, he leaves her to sort out the mess of feelings.

The baby. He didn't mention it until now, which seems odd. Surely, if it existed, it should be the first reason why she should live. Which means… it can't be real. There's no way she's actually pregnant if he waited so long to fire that weapon. That's a relief, at least. Or is it? Could I be just a tiny bit sad that I won't have a bit of Peeta surviving with her? That his son won't be here? I won't admit it. I don't know.

"Katniss and Peeta just made out on the beach," my wife says. She's standing in the doorway to the living room instead of sitting beside me. She knows I'm still angry with her for her heartless comment about Wiress.

"Yes," I say, not looking at her.

"In their underclothes."

Alright, that was a little weird. But, they've been wearing them for days now. After their jumpsuits were practically disintegrated by the acid, then washed away by the wave, they had no choice. I guess kissing in them… yeah, probably not the most comfortable thing for the viewers to experience. But still-

"On _national television,"_ my wife continues.

Suddenly, the magic of the kiss dies a little. All the things she brought up are true. Half naked and making out on national television - proud parenting moment. I sigh heavily as the euphoria fades away. My wife does know the quickest ways to point out the sadistic nature of the Games.

But not matter what they were wearing or where they were doing it, this was something real. True or false. Promises. Family. And a kiss so powerful it shook the entirety of the Quell, the Capitol, and even Panem. This is what love looks like. Nothing, not death of torture or distance, will ever, _ever_ end it.

But that leaves one question unanswered:

Will Katniss let Peeta die for her?


	50. Stay or Go

The morning after the whole, uh, kissing extravaganza, Katniss stays asleep much longer than the others.

Unlike when the Quell started and even in the months preceding it, I'm able to get a full night's sleep myself most of the time. It's stupid, I know, but it almost feels like the Quell will go on infinitely. That it will never end, thereby keeping all of the tributes safe. It's been pretty laid back in between the major fights, and our alliance is clearly dominating. They outnumber every other alliance now, so the Games are being played on their terms. It's not if they'll be attacked, but when they'll hunt the others. They've switched from the prey to the predators.

"It's so different," I muse watching the others sit around on the beach. "These Games, I mean. Don't they seem more… relaxed?"

"How do you mean?" my wife asks coolly. The truth is, she was probably right about Wiress. Now that I can detach from the emotion of the event, I see the way she viewed it all along. I still don't want any of these victors to die, but our alliance is so much stronger than the others that it gives us something breathing room.

"The Careers won't attack now that they're so outnumbered," I explain. "Our alliance is the biggest and strongest in the Quell."

"Yes, but the field is down to eight." She fiddles with a strand of her hair.

Of course I know that. We were interviewed this morning. They showed up with their microphones and cameras, just like last year, but I'm pretty sure I gave them a better show. If Peeta can act for the cameras, so can I. "So?"

"Pretty soon, they'll have to… you know, turn on each other. They can't all win. The alliance is temporary."

Like the smashing of a dam, the weight of the Games bursts forth from the places where I'd managed to harness it. The alliance. Of course, it's temporary. It's only a matter of time now before someone turns.

"That's what they really want to see," my wife says quietly. "Have you noticed how quickly the field has been dropping, yet this group stays pretty much intact? They can't wait until the tension starts to turn the victors against each other. The drama, the bloody backstabbing, the unpredictability - it's what they live for."

She's talking about the Capitol, of course. Those people with their sick enjoyment of watching people kill one another.

Now that I know how close we are to the turning point, I think I see the trepidation in Katniss as she wakes and joins the others. As she sits next to Peeta, savoring her breakfast parachute rolls, I see her working it all out. To stay. To go. _When_ to go. The announcers are right. This is the strongest alliance with the strongest victors. As soon as someone breaks it off, they'll be hunted like there's no tomorrow. And there's a good chance there won't be, at least not for them.

"Come on," Katniss says at last, taking Peeta by the hand. "I'll teach you how to swim."

Swimmings never been a necessary skill here in Twelve and I'm still mystified as to how Katniss learned it. Probably in the woods somewhere.

Peeta looks a little confused, but some all-too familiar note of underlying determination in her voice makes him follow.

"I'll show you the basic stroke and you can just copy," she says, wading into waist-high water. "We'll start you in the shallows."

She demonstrates the simple arm movements, explaining how to conserve breath and stay afloat (which is pointless because Peeta's still wearing a flotation belt). My son studies her for awhile, then tries it out himself.

"Yeah, lift your arms a little higher," she advises. "There you go." She picks at a few of the remaining fog scabs on her arm, and surprisingly, they peel off. Picking up a handful of sand and rubbing it up and down her arms, she's able to rid herself of most of the rest. "Peeta!" she taps him to get his attention. "Stop for a moment and take off the rest of your scabs."

Dripping wet and shining in the hazy sunlight, he stops his practice and lifts a handful of sand to his arm. As she pretends to show him how to peel away the rest of the scabs, we see why she's isolated them from the rest of the group.

"Look, the pool is down to eight," she says quietly. "I think it's time we took off."

I try to imagine them severing the alliance. Fleeing the other victors as well as the jungle. An image of Peeta and Katniss stuck in the cave, bleeding from their wounds - his leg and her head - forms itself in my mind.

My son nods. "Tell you what. Let's stick around until Brutus and Enobaria are dead. I think Beetee's trying to put together some kind of trap for them now. Then, I promise, we'll go."

Katniss sighs reluctantly. This idea of breaking the alliance is hard on both of them. The delusion of safety is one that's hard to willingly give up. But it's the best option they have. The longer they wait, the more likely someone else will turn first and who knows how bloodthirsty they'd be? Maybe they'd just kill everyone in their sleep without a fight. But to escape now, with the Careers still lethal and active, also might not be the smartest idea. They'll have to time it just right.

"Alright," she agrees at last. "We'll stay until the Careers are dead. But that's the end of it." Suddenly turning back to where the others are, she shouts, "Hey, Finnick, come on in! We figured out how to make you pretty again!"

How quickly she shifted from talking about betraying Odair to teasing him. Hearing her, he'd never suspect a thing.

Peeta was right about Beetee coming up with a plan. He calls everyone over and apparently had devised a strategy of killing the Careers with lightning and the coil of wire.

They're not quite sure how much Brutus and Enobaria have figured out about the arena, but we as viewers know they're pretty well off. Enobaria figured out that the Gamemaker horrors were occurring in a circular pattern about a day ago and they've done a pretty decent job of moving from sector to sector without getting caught. They haven't used the word "clock" yet, but they might as well have.

Everyone agrees, however, that the Careers understand that the beach is the safest place, and the only reason they're not here is because of their camp. Beetee wants to use his wire to electrify the saltwater and the damp sand. I remember Beetee's Games. How he electrocuted six tributes at a time. This electricity stuff seems to be his trademark or something. That's right, didn't they call him Volts or something?

In truth, I don't really understand the complicated inner-workings of his plan. And announcers surely don't.

"Well, he isn't the Capitol's brain for nothing," Claudius laughs. "Simply put of course, I think Beetee wants to use that wire to electrify the water using lightning. I don't know, Caesar, seems pretty legitimate to me. The question is, can he pull it off?"

I'm not sure even the other victors know what he's talking about other than the most basic idea. Lightning. Wire. Electricity.

"Does _he_ even know what he's talking about?" my wife grumbles. "Sounds like a bunch of gibberish to me."

"This is District Three," I remind her. "If anyone can do it, it's him."

"But as we are allies and this will require all our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you four," Beetee says.

 _Allies._ That word kills. If this works, they'll no longer be bound by it.

"Why not?" Katniss says at last. "If it fails, there's no harm done. If it works, there's a decent chance we'll them. And even if we don't and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source, too."

"I say we try it," Peeta says. "Katniss is right." He was waiting for her to approve.

Finnick and Johanna exchange looks. It seems this alliance will split off into three sections. Katniss and Peeta, and Johanna and Finnick. I don't know where Beetee will go, but the odds aren't in his favor.

"Alright," Johanna rolls her eyes. "It's better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they'll figure out our plan since we can barely understand it ourselves."

The plan is officially set in motion. Beetee needs to inspect the lightning tree, so Finnick and Peeta take turns carrying him while the girls take the front and the back, watching for either Gamemaker traps or tributes or stray vines.

Although the morning's still young, the victors are sweating buckets. It runs down their faces, gathers on their lips and cheeks. The humidity even fogs up Beetee's glasses.

The expansive lightning tree is hard to miss. It rises into the air, reaching for the pink sky that will unleash the bolts upon it. Katniss checks for the force field with her apparently ultra-hearing and a clump of nuts. The kinds Mags liked to eat.

"Just stay below the lightning tree," she announces.

They split off to replenish themselves. Johanna taps a tree, Peeta and Katniss head a little ways away - he gathers, she hunts - and Beetee and Finnick stay at the tree, the latter guarding the former while he diligently inspects it.

I spend some time in the bakery while they're still there. I don't think they'll be attacked by anyone and as long as they stay mindful of the time, they should be in the clear. By the time I return, they're just starting to leave. Not back to the beach, though, just to the tall tree in the blood- rain wedge.

Beetee needs the rest of the afternoon to plan out the details of his trap, so the four other victors are out of a job. By the afternoon, everyone is restless. I never thought I'd use that to describe the Games.

"Well, Beetee certainly seems very confident," Caesar says. "It's just too bad the rest of us have no idea what he's talking about!"

It's Finnick who suggest having a feast of sorts since this is probably the last night they'll be eating seafood. He instructs them on harvesting fish, shellfish, and even oysters. It's like a holiday - each victor blissfully absorbed in their task. They always keep someone on watch, but other than that, it could be a group of friends hanging out on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

"Hey," Peeta laughs as he opens up an oyster. "Look at this!" In his hand is a shiny, perfectly spherical pearl plucked from the inside of the shell. "You know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns into pearls," he says with a dead serious expression.

That's not true and Finnick dismisses the comment, but Katniss begins laughing, so it must mean something to her. Perhaps an inside joke or something.

Gently, Peeta rinsed the glimmering pearl in the water before placing it in Katniss's palm. "For you."

I can hear the sighs in the Capitol.

Katniss stares, as if mesmerized by the pearl, for a long while. Then, she encloses it in her first. "Thanks."

They lock eyes and the laughter dies away. For a moment, I'm worried they'll start kissing again, but Peeta just leans closer and whispers, "the locket didn't work, did it?"

Finnick and Johanna are standing right there, so I don't know what whispering does for him. "Katniss?"

"It worked."

"But not the way I wanted it to." My son looks back down at the oysters, disappointed.

"What did he expect?" my wife says. "That she'd just _agree?_ Okay, Peeta, you're right. You should die so I can have my family back. Haha, silly me."

I shake my head. Seriously, Peeta couldn't have actually thought she'd cave so easily. This is Katniss Everdeen we're talking about. She'll never go down without a fight.

So they dine on the oysters and shellfish. A parachute arrives bearing bread and sauce, adding to the special feel of the meal.

After they've eaten all they can hold, Peeta and Katniss go down to the edge of the water and sit side-by-side, holding hands. They don't talk, each lost in thoughts that can't be very happy.

Finnick and Johanna walk a little ways away, too.

"Are you ready?" Johanna asks cryptically.

"Yeah. It's getting close."

They don't elaborate or say anything else. What's getting closer? The time to sever the alliance? Why don't they form a more detailed plan? Why speak in almost code? Do they know each other that well that they can read minds? Interpret words that could mean just about anything? I mean, it's almost time for the sun to go down. Peeta and Katniss better get a move on.

"Are you coming?" my wife asks, coming into the room. She left a little while ago to take a shift at the counter.

"Coming? What do you mean? Where?"

"We're watching them set the trap in the square," she says. "Come on. It'll be better that way."

I'm not so convinced. Is she implying that this night may be the finale? I guess there's a good chance. Holy crap, I'm not ready for this yet. It switched so quickly, from relaxed to the end.

 _Are you ready?_

No.


	51. Midnight

Midnight.

That precarious hour when victors teeter between life and death. With each tick of the arena, fate draws nearer. It's calm - too calm - for such a brewing storm. There's been no blood. The sky shows no faces. The victors on the beach have fared well, gorging on the seafood as they did. As the hands on the clock slowly creep forward, they take even swipes at the serenity. The only reason the Gamemakers haven't interfered is the building sense of anticipation surrounding tonight. The trap. The inevitable break of the strongest alliance. One way or another, tonight will end in canons.

My legs feels shaky as we file into the square. Between the spookily undisturbed atmosphere, the race against time, and the the hordes of Peacekeepers escorting us into the square, I feel a strange sense of foreboding.

Last year, the finale brought excitement, as well as terror. Katniss and Peeta outnumbered Cato, they had their seemingly unbreakable bond, and we had a strange little fluttery thing called hope _._ How things have changed. Tonight, our victors will _turn_ on their alliance - or the alliance will turn on them.

"Do you think this will be it?" I ask my wife under my breath. "The finale?" I don't know why I'm whispering. Sure, the Peacekeepers are on all sides, but they can hear every word I say anyway. It's not anything that could get us in trouble… I hope.

"If the trap works, Katniss and Peeta will turn. Probably Johanna and Finnick, too," she whispers back. "That could get bloody."

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

"I told the boys we'd meet them near the front," my wife says in a louder voice. Probably to cover up the fear in our exchange.

But when we try to move to the front to find our sons, the Peacekeepers won't let us. They want everyone accounted for, apparently, and that means we have to stay in neat rows.

"You're here to watch, not socialize," one of them growls. "Take your place."

I spot think I see the boys up front, but I can't be sure. I don't like being separated from them like this, against my will. We've already lost Peeta, I can't handle them, too.

The large screen flickers to life and my heart drops into my shoes. Here we go.

"This is a pivotal, _pivotal_ night," Caesar says, pausing for emphasis. His voice is low and composed; a purr that invites anticipation and excitement. "The fate of the victors from District Two and the crowd's favorite alliance rests on tonight's shoulders."

And now we see them, our victors.

"Stop," my wife hisses, dragging me to the surface of my thoughts.

"What?"

"You're bouncing your leg," she mutters. "It's making me anxious."

"Sorry." I didn't even realize I was doing it. Now that I'm looking for it, I notice my nervous movements. Drumming fingers, jittery limbs. I'm tired of being in the dark, of not knowing. Just get this over with already.

"Why do they have to drag it out?" I whisper.

"You know why. The entire country is watching this right now."

The beach, which is now glowing softly under the last insistent beams of day, harbors our alliance. Beetee is in his head, working out some final calculations, I suppose. Johanna keeps letting her ax blade slam into the sand, as if practicing for the real thing... when its lethal metal will find flesh and bone instead of yellow grains. Peeta is standing on the beach, still as a statue, and staring out at the shape of the golden horn with an unhappy expression. Is he pondering what to do with Katniss? How to protect her tonight? She's with Finnick, kicking some empty oyster shells, waiting. They're all waiting, as are we.

I notice that the cameras have yet to show the Careers. In a situation such as this, the Gamemakers often decide to pick of point of view. They can't make it too omniscient or the anticipation would ebb away. Tonight, they've chosen the predator. The patient hunters waiting for a careless prey to wander past.

Slowly, the darkness smothers the fragile life force of the daylight. The arena is wreathed in unearthly shadows, elongating the trees and turning the ocean from blue, to grey, to black. A seething, writhing mass of waves. Katniss and Finnick glance up first at the sky, then at each other.

"Looks like it's about nine," he says. His voice is steady, collected, yet it can't be how he's really feeling. Unless he and Johanna are so confident that he doesn't feel the need to be concerned.

"Yeah, let's go," Katniss answers with a shrug.

They round up the others and begin the trek to the lightning tree. No one says much, just wiping away sweat and grunting with effort occasionally. Walking is better than staying on the beach, though, at least for those of us watching. The silent biding of time, wasting perhaps their last hours of sunlight, was excruciating. I know I'll eat my words when the fighting breaks out, but for now, it's better to feel like they're being productive.

They reach the lightning tree - its trunk looking much more imposing in the night.

"I'll need Finnick to assists me," Beetee says. "The rest of you need to be on guard."

Finnick and Beetee unravel the thin, golden wire for many yards - piling the springy stuff on the ground. They wrap the end around a severed branch and put it aside. Now the real work will begin. The gold wire slowly encases the tree like a spider's web. The delicate, complicated cross-crossing of wires rises, devouring the bark and overcoming the initial expanse of the trunk. Is this somehow going to strengthen the charge the lightning delivers? Does it matter that much how the wire is wrapped? Up and up it weaves, trapping the tree as our alliance hopes to trap the Careers.

I wonder where they are right now, the Careers, I mean. The last we saw of them… it was yesterday. They were in the tree line, I think, poised to spy on Katniss, Peeta and the others. Could they have picked up some clues, however vague, about the trap? They must know they are being hunted. How could they not?

The ten o'clock sector's wave crashes down on the Cornucopia, giving us a rough estimate of the time. Ten-thirty or so. An hour and a half until midnight.

And then, Beetee explains the rest of his plan. "Since you girls move fastest through the trees, you'll take the coil and unwind," he says. "Make sure to go across the beach, particularly in the twelve o'clock section, then run for the jungle. If you go now, you should make it to safety."

"I want to go with them as a guard," my son demands at once.

"You're too slow," Beetee says matter-of-factly. "Besides, I'll need you on this end. Katniss will guard. I'm sorry. If the girls are to get out of there alive, they need to move now." He hands the coil to Johanna and the moonlight sparks off the golden threads.

"It's okay," Katniss says to Peeta, who still seems very distressed at this arrangement. "We'll just drop the coil and come straight back up."

"Not into the lightning zone," Beetee reminds her, sounding like a chiding schoolteacher. "Head for the tree in the one-to-two-o'clock sector. If you find you're running out of time, move over one more. Don't even think about going back on the beach, though, until I can assess the damage."

Very tenderly, Katniss reaches up and takes Peeta's face in her hands. "Don't worry," she assures him softly. "I'll see you at midnight." The kiss that follows is short, but so sweet. It effectively stops Peeta from protesting and seems to bolster Katniss's confidence just a little. She starts off with Johanna, glancing back to give my son a final nod.

No matter how much it pains Peeta stay behind, Beetee is right. There's no way he could move at the pace the girls are going with that leg of his. Johanna takes the job of unwinding and laying the wire while Katniss watches the woods for any sign of movement. There's not much talk, probably because it's crucial they get out of there undetected and _quickly._

"Come on," I find myself whispering. They just don't seem to be moving fast enough. I want them to get a safe distance away.

In the neighboring sector, a dreadful chorus of clicks starts up, indicating another thirty minutes have passed. Eleven o'clock. One hour until midnight.

"Better hurry up," Johanna notes. "I want to put a lot of distance between me and that water before the lightning hits. Just in case Volts miscalculated."

"I'll take the wire for a while," Katniss offers.

Johanna happily relinquished the coil. It must be tiring to unwind it all that way. Back up the slope, the camera follows the slight trail of gold. It pans up a little ways, traveling through the trees. And there we see them. The Careers. Much too close to Katniss and Johanna who're completely unsuspecting. Maybe they're just passing by, perhaps even heading for the beach now that our alliance has vacated it. Of course, that's too much to hope.

"They know," my wife whispers. A string of swearing follows, earning us a few dirty looks from those surrounding us.

"Who does?" I ask urgently. "The Careers? What do they know?"

As if in reply, Enobaria leaps forward with her knife drawn and inspects the golden wire. The trap. They know about the trap! In one quick slice, she uses her knife to sunder the thin thread. By the time the action registers in my mind, Katniss and Johanna have already figured it out.

Johanna draws her knife and Katniss reaches for an arrow until -

The entire square sucks in a mouthful of air. A few people even cry out, shocked out of their silence. Because Johanna Mason has just clouted Katniss with the metal cylinder. She lets out a strangled cry and falls to the ground, unable to stop Johanna from sitting on her chest. The Seven victor's face is set into hard lines as she digs her knife into the flesh on Katniss's inner forearm.

I wince as the blood bursts forth, the dark sticky stuff staining her arm. In the silvery moonlight, against the dark blood, her skin appears very pale. The point of Johanna's knife stays in her flesh for quite a while, digging around as if looking for something. There's so much blood I can't tell what's dismembered flesh and what's not.

The Careers appear at the top of the hill. Like a cat, Johanna stealthily coats Katniss's face and neck in blood before darting away.

All hell has broken loose. It was bound to happen, just not like this! Hadn't I just said we were the hunters now? How ironic that the Careers surprised them.

The Gamemakers have taken us back to the lightning tree. There's no more organized planning. The wire has gone slack, leaving them panicked.

"The girls!" Peeta's saying. "Something's happened, Finnick!"

"Stay here with Beetee! I'll go find them!" Finnick wields his trident and plunged down the slope, his agile body giving him an edge.

"Peeta, stay here!" Beetee instructs. In one hand, he's holding a knife wrapping in wire. He's close to the force field, his arm carelessly near the dangerous boundary.

But my son's not listening. He's headed for the slope, too - a very bad idea with his artificial leg.

"Peeta!" Beetee orders again.

My son crashes noisily through the vegetation, leaving Beetee alone and vulnerable. His hands are shaking as he lifts the knife again. I'm not quite sure what happens next. There's a sizzling, a blinding burst of light, a low cry. All I know is that it ends with Beetee on the ground, unconscious, but breathing.

Too far away, Katniss is trying to haul herself to her feet. She's disoriented, stumbling and pitching forward, unable to raise herself at all without the help of a tree. The blow Johanna delivered must have done a great deal of damage. And then there's her arm, which is still as nasty as before - more so because by laying on the ground, she invited tiny gnats and other debris to mix with the red flow.

I look away from the screen because she's leaning forward now, heaving up her seafood dinner. Her face is covered in blood and sweat, so when she rises, the green color of her face mixes in an awful combination of seasickness and pallor.

"I knew it! Johanna's been planning this all along!" my wife shrieks. The Peacekeepers turn toe adds us, moving in closer. With a glare in their direction, she goes back to her obscenities. Everyone has their way of coping, I guess.

For Claudius and Caesar, this seems like just the excitement the Capitol was looking for. The way they describe it, so intense, so graphic, but without any true emotion, I begin to see how they view the Games. Take away the human qualities of sympathy and pain and you get the Hunger Games they watch.

Unfortunately for us, we don't get the luxury of detachment. My body feels oddly heavy, tingling like someone's holding a match to it.

Katniss has managed to nock an arrow, but I doubt she'll be able to get a very steady shot in the state she's in. She staggers tipsily forward, inching her way towards the tree. Her feet don't seem to be obeying her brain, her ankles rolling frequently. And what's this journey for? She won't find Peeta where she's going. He's still crashing through the jungle in search of her, heading in the direction of their rendezvous spot.

Finnick's nearby, though. Maybe he'll get to her before the Careers do. If he finds her, hopefully he'll take her to Peeta for some cleaning up. But maybe not, I realize. If Johanna's separated herself from the alliance, he probably has, too. I think about their conversation.

" _Are you ready?"_

" _Yeah. It's getting close."_

So they planned on doing this all along? Maybe they never meant to go through with the trap.

Chaff, who's been trailing the Careers for a couple of days, is the first victor to die. My own heart is racing so quickly and everything seems to be happening so fast that I don't know quite how it happens. One second he's on his feet, the next Brutus is barreling towards him, sticking his knife right into the man's guts.

At the sound of the canon, everyone becomes twice as agitated.

Peeta's face goes pale. Katniss stops walking all together. Johanna and Finnick both search the sky, hoping for a picture.

Weapons. Blood. The jungle becomes a kill zone. I don't think people are even stopping to identify the person. Stab. Slice. Thud.

I may as well be asleep. Everything flies over my head, twisting my mind and warping my thoughts. I can't process everything at the lightning fast speed it's happening.

Lighting! Katniss has made it to the tree, now, tripping up the hill.

"Peeta?" she calls hoarsely. "Peeta?"

But the only person there to hear is Beetee. Through her confusion and panic, recognition lights up in her eyes. "Beetee!" She's trying to wrap his wound, but the moss she's using to wipe the blood is way too far down. I wonder if she's seeing double. "Beetee! Beetee, what's going on! Who cut you? Beetee!"

 _What's going on?_ That's the question I want to know, too. _What the hell is going on?_

The camera has split into three, now - trying to show all the Capitol-glorious moments of this night. But I can only focus on one ideally, and even that's become a struggle. I force my brain to absorb what's happening.

Katniss is noticing the knife Beetee is clutching now. She's holding it up, perplexed. Beetee didn't explain this part, or if he did we didn't understand it. From the look on Katniss's face I think it's a good guess she has no clue why it's there either.

Only when the clicking begins to die down do I realize how loud it was. No wonder I couldn't concentrate. But that's bad. That means lightning is coming. The trap has completely backfired because at this rate, it'll kill Katniss and Beetee - maybe none of the Careers.

"Katniss!" Peeta's pushing through the hanging vines, trying to find some trace of her. "Katniss!" I don't think he even cares about bringing attackers - just so long as she's safe.

"Peeta!" she screams back. "Peeta! I'm here! Peeta! I'm here! I'm here!"

At the sound of her voice, my son's pain becomes visibly more crippling. He's so far away, so unable to help her. He's fighting his way towards her, though, not giving up until there's no hope left. Until Brutus finds him. It wasn't that hard - he was yelling at the top of his lungs. Peeta draws a knife, hesitating just slightly before stabbing. Brutus punches Peeta in the jaw, his own knife clashing against my son's blade.

 _What's happening?_

The question asks itself as I watch my son struggle against this man. Peeta and his brothers have always been good wrestlers, but this man is gigantic and angry.

 _Schlick_

A stab aimed at Brutus' heart accidentally impales his neck. It's a death blow, nonetheless. Peeta swallows hard before stumbling forward. "Katniss!" he howls. He knows he must get to her before the lightning does.

She answers him, but the slightest possibly they may reach each other died with Brutus. The odds aren't in their favor. She's sinking to her knees, her eyes unfocused and glassy. Her shrieks have brought Finnick and Enobaria, but not him. Not the one person she can trust in this arena.

In one final heroic attempt to take out the enemy, she raises her bow, aiming for the Two victor.

The alliance is in shards, broken never to be repaired. I can see Katniss doesn't care if she kills Finnick or Enobaria, as long as her arrow finds flesh. Finnick Odair, who brought Peeta back to life, who carried him through the fog, who laughed with Katniss, who survived the jabberjay attack with her, who taught them all to fish - gone in the blink of an eye.

But no, she's lowering the bow and taking Beetee's knife in her hands. They shake as they slide the golden wire off his weapon and onto the shaft of hers.

The world seems slightly titled, running at an irregular speed. Midnight. Twenty seconds away. Katniss pulls the string of the bow back with great effort, her legs shaking madly. Fifteen seconds. She aims it the best she can at… nothing it seems. Why the wire? What will it do.

"Get away from the tree!" people here are hollering.

"KATNISS GO!"

"DAMN HER, SHE'LL DIE IF SHE STAYS THERE!"

"Run Katniss!"

All thoughtfully shouted remarks, coming from a place of good intent, but it's much too late. Five seconds. Four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds. One seconds. Midnight.

Katniss lets the arrow fly as the screen is lit up with a dazzling blue-white light. For a few seconds, it remains, illuminating our terrified faces.

And then everything goes dark.


	52. Skyfall

_Thud_

 _Thud_

 _Thud_

My heart is the only sound in the square. Blood fills my ears, pounding through my veins in a vain attempt to get oxygen to my paralyzed limbs. My whole body is pulsing with energy. An unmistakable ringing begins in my ears, humming in step with the hammering of my heart. Free floating thoughts wander their way into my subconscious.

 _An arrow. Katniss Everdeen just shot an arrow as she was struck by lightning… lightning… lightning._

When I blink, the dazzling fragments of the bolts still grow and shrink behind my eyelids. I need to move, think, speak, but my functions have been rendered useless. I'm caught in the eye of storm; winds and driving rain just beyond my line of sight… which ends right in front of my nose. Blackness. That's what fills the square. Utter and complete blackness. All the lights, including the shop windows and lit houses, have been extinguished. Even the ghostly lights of the emergency bulbs in the square have been smothered.

Somewhere in the crowd, a baby starts to wail, bringing everyone to their senses, at least partially. Unfortunately, that also means the Peacekeepers start to take action. I can't see them, but I can certainly hear their bellows.

"Go home!" I feel a gloved hand shove me. "Clear out! None of you have permission to be outside anymore! Stay in your houses until further notice! Move!"

As my eyes begin to adjust to the next-to-no light, I reach out, groping for my wife, for anyone in this pit of darkness. Panic begins to spread like a wildfire, infecting each person and spreading quickly. Dark shapes push me in all directions as people try to blindly find their way home.

I shout for my wife, my cries joining thousands of others.

"Dad!" The voice comes from somewhere far off to my left. "Dad! Where are you?"

Shoving someone aside, I attempt to make my way towards the voice.

"Trish?" Someone else grabs me, but I don't recognize their voice.

"No, I'm not- " But whoever it was is gone, feeling their way among the next group of people.

By some miracle, I find my wife. Now that the clouds have moved a little, we have the moonlight to guide us. It's not much, but at least I can make out the rigid figure that I so often see in the doorway of the bakery.

"Come on," she yells over the rising noise of the frantic crowd. "Let's go home!"

"Not without the boys," I say, resisting her attempt to pull me away.

"Didn't you hear the Peacekeepers?" she shouts. "Everyone needs to go home! They need to stay in their house and we'll be in our. Tomorrow morning you can go over there.!"

I can't leave them here. I can't. I've already lost Peeta. I can't. "They need to come with us! I heard one of them call for me!"

"They'll be fine." My wife is angry, desperately dragging me towards the road. "Come on, _come on!"_

It's out of my control now. The crowd is surging forward, pushing us away from the square. It doesn't matter what I say or do now, it's pointless to fight against this current. So I let myself be swept up in the jostling crowd, trying not to let my trembling hands show. Every now and then, a white uniform catches the irredentist light from the moon and sends a painful jolt all the way from my stomach to the tips of my fingers.

"Which way?" I strain my voice trying to scream over the noise. My hands are gripping my one ally in this mess, holding on because if anyone knows how to answer a question, it's her. She'll get us home.

In response, my wife just elbows her way past people, pulling me along. My eyes can't help wander the shadowy silhouettes of Twelve's population. Our party from the square has merged with the neighboring streets gathering, and _their_ neighboring street's. We're all a scrambled pot of fear and bewilderment.

She gets us home and I've never climbed the steps so quickly. When the door to the bakery is locked and we're standing in the sudden, still darkness, I finally feel the exhaustion and terror take hold.

My wife feels her way around, gathering candles and the matches we keep by the fireplace. Power outages aren't uncommon, in fact, it's more common not to have electricity here in Twelve, but lately, the Capitol's been reducing the blackouts. All the mandatory programming and the Capitol stylists and escorts passing through here are reason enough to keep the lights on.

The candles aren't much, but the flickering flame at least offers some comfort, however limited.

"What the hell just happened?" It comes out in a near whisper.

"I don't know." My wife's fixated on a candle, watching the wick burn black. "I - I was hoping that when the alliance turned, our people would get angry. I thought, well I hoped, that seeing our tributes betrayed would light a fire. That we'd start an uprising ourselves."

"And you wanted to be part of it?" I sit down heavily on a chair, anxiously tapping my foot against the rung. Outside, I can hear the confusion of the stream of people trying to force their way back home. To safety.

The candles continue burn, wavering slightly. In the orange glow, my wife looks a hundred years old. She was so hoping for a change, the impossible idea that Twelve could fight back. It's been the insane dream she's held onto for years and years. I finally see why she didn't give up when her brother died, what made pick her head up and move on.

I let my brain roam over the evening's events. The wire was more than a crucial part of the trap; it was a cord of control. When it was snapped, weapons came out, consciences faded, and the victors abandoned any pretense of friendship. I mean, Katniss and Peeta were still in it together, but other than that, it turned into a free-for-all. No, that's not entirely true. Didn't Katniss lower to bow at the last second before she shot at Enobaria and Finnick? Could she have been unable to kill her former ally or did a lightbulb go off in her brain just then? After that, everything gets hazy. Something about her slipping the wire from a knife to her arrow and then -

"Do you think Katniss knew?" I blurt out. In the quiet of our house, my voice echoes.

"Knew that she'd destroy the force field? Wreck the Games? Die giving us a final moment of rebellion?" she smiles sadly. "What do you think?"

"No," I moan. "Don't say that."

"What? That she's dead?" My wife laughs. "Fine, she survived the Quell-charged lightning and is now leading the other victors on a march through the Capitol. Better?"

No, but Katniss can't be dead. She can't be. And if she's dead… did the charge shock everyone in the arena? Could Peeta be dead too?

I suddenly notice how still everything's gotten. Dead quiet. The earlier sounds movement in the street are gone . My wife peeks out the window at the square and the road beyond, her curiosity getting the better of her for a moment.

"No one," she whispers. "Not one person."

"Where did they go?"

"Back home, you dimwit," she says, annoyed. "Didn't you hear the Peacekeepers? They intend to shoot anyone outside."

My mind is stuck on those last moments we got of coverage, when the lightning storm began. The way Katniss' body convulsed as she let the arrow fly.

"What do you think they'll do?" I ask. "Now that they don't have a victor? Was there ever meant to _be_ a victor?" All the questions I never got to ask her because I was worried we were being watched or unable to face reality come pouring out. Doesn't matter now.

"Why do you think I know the answer to all these?" she asks.

"You always know the answer," I say, not realizing how childish it sounds until it falls from my lips. "Even when we were kids."

"Oh." She ponders this for awhile, then turns to me. "I really don't know anything for certain. Not this time."

"But you have a theory at least," I say. "I've seen that look on your face. Tell me what you think you know."

She lets out a puff of air, then begins talking very quickly. "The Capitol always has a plan. Nothing they do is arbitrary, _nothing._ Every reaping, every speech. The same goes for the Quell. The whole "victor of the victors thing" was perfect. Too perfect. No, be quiet, let me finish." She holds up a hand as I try to cut in. "The districts were getting too confident, too hopeful. So, the Capitol took the one thing that was stemming these ideas - the victors. And not just any victors, the most beloved ones."

"Most beloved…?"

"Cashmere and Gloss - the family victors, Finnick Odair - the handsome sex symbol of Panem," she rattles off. "Beetee - one of the most intelligent victors ever, and of course, the star-crossed lovers. Don't you think they knew Haymitch would volunteer if Peeta was reaped? Don't you think they also understood that if _Haymitch_ was reaped, Peeta would take his place?"

"So it was rigged?" I'd never thought if that.

"How else did the star-crossed lovers end up back in the Games again? How else, out of ranks of victors from Four we forgot the names of, did _Finnick Odair_ get reaped? I've spent years studying the Capitol and their way of thinking. They wouldn't leave anything to chance."

I sink back, trying to take it all in. For some reason, the silence isn't helping me puzzle it all out, which doesn't make sense. Maybe it's just that I've never heard the district this quiet before. "See," I say after a while. "You do know the answer."

"I'm just speculating," she brushes off my attempt at a compliment. "I could be all wrong."

"Wait… did you say you've been studying the Capitol?" My brain feels slow and foggy as I try to work out the meaning of her words. "Why?"

"In case we -" she clears her throat. "In case this ever happened. The discomfort and semi-revolution."

There's a long silence as we both submerge back into our own thoughts. We don't know where our victors are or what's going on in the Capitol. The Capitol who adores the Games, who watch every moment, what must be going on there? Did they lose power? Probably not. But I can only imagine the confusion. The pampered citizens thrown into panic because their coverage shut off. Maybe they don't even realize exactly what happened.

"Do you think the boys made it home?" I ask.

"Well, they're not outside, so I'd say there's a fair chance they did."

"Do you think Peeta's dead?"

She doesn't answer, which means yes. I lean my head against the table and groan.

My wife gets up and looks out the window periodically, checking for who knows what.

"What are you looking for?" I ask finally. "There's no one out there but the Peacekeepers."

"That's the strange thing," she mutters. "They're not patrolling the streets like I thought they would be."

"They've successfully scared the entirety of Twelve into their houses!" I burst out. "Why would they need to patrol?You said yourself that no one would risk going outside!"

"Shhh," she hisses. "Shut up. Do you want the whole town to hear you?"

I sigh, my breath extinguishing a candle that's too close. I reach for the matches and am about to strike one when I hear a noise. A great rumbling of engines.

"Those must be the trucks," she says.

We look at each other. The Peacekeepers' heavily armored trucks.

My wife goes back to looking outside. "They're all leaving. Every last one."

The world seems strangely fuzzy suddenly. What… why… there's only one reason every Peacekeeper would clear the district. From the look on my wife's face, she knows it, too.

Once again, the thud of my heart is the loudest noise in the room. My entire body is shivering. A knock on the door downstairs in the bakery causes me to jump ten feet.

My wife flies down the steps, peering out into the darkness, trying to see who it is. "It's Thom," she mutters, swinging open the door. The bell jingles merrily.

The man is standing on the steps, his bright eyes wide, but determined. His unshaven face looks more ragged than usual. I don't know him well, only that he's a regular customer at the bakery and that he works in the mines every day of the week except Sundays.

"Thom," my wife whispers.

"Grab anything you want and come with me," Thom tells us, not bothering with a greeting of any kind.

"Where are we going?"

"To the woods. Come on!" He checks the sky, then glances at us. "Meet me at the fence line. Hurry!" He jumps of the steps and bounds to the next door, pounding in it. This time, he doesn't wait for someone to open it. "Open up, come on! We have to get out! Pack everything you need and come to the fence line!"

I pull my wife inside.

"What does he mean? _Get out?_ Where will we be going? This is madness!"

She pushes away my hands, already gathering our coats. It's still much too warm to be wearing jackets, but it makes her feel more in control. "Don't you understand?"

"I think everyone's overreacting! The Capitol won't like it if -"

"THEY ARE GOING TO BOMB US!" she shrieks, pressing my coat into my arms. I can feel her shaking, but it may be from anger just as much as fear.

Bombs. It's the only explanation, yet my brain refuses to accept it. I order myself to think it through, to understand that staying here means death. "And somehow the woods will be spared?" I ask, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "That'll be the first thing to catch fire! And there could be anything in there! If we get out of here alive, we'll just be killed by a wild animal or something!"

"I agree," she grabs me by the hand and begins to pull me out the door. "We'll make a break for it on the road. _Come on,_ we don't have time for this!"

People are starting to realize what's happening. The silence is broken as frightened children are hurried out the door. Some people try to gather a few provisions, but most just herd their families toward the main road out of the district.

Many guys from the mines are still pounding on doors, trying to get the attention of those few residents who still don't understand what's happening.

"To the fence!" they order. "Everyone to the fence!"

Ahead of me, a little boy looks up at his mother. "Why aren't we going to the fence, mommy?"

"Honey, it's dangerous in the woods, but we must move quickly."

"The boys," I mutter, trying to turn around. "We have to get the boys!"

"Keep moving!" my wife cries. "They'll get the message."

"I'm not leaving without them!"

"You can't save everyone! We'll all die!"

"It's the Mellarks!" I hear someone screech behind me. The Cartwrights are running towards us. Both blonde, both merchants.

"Have you seen our children?" she sobs.

"We left the shoe store and they were right there! One of the guys from the mines was trying to get us to the fence, but we lost them!"

Delly and her little brother. Missing. I want to help, assist them. They can't be far, right? "I'll help! We're looking for our boys." My breath comes in shallow gasps.

Pain shows on the Cartwrights' faces and I know they're thinking of Peeta. It's too late for him, but maybe not for Delly and the others.

"I'm sorry," my wife says, starting to pull me away. "But if we're going to get out of here, we all need to go. They'll be in the crowd somewhere, just - let's hurry!"

"You guys can go, but I'm not leaving until I find my children!" sobs their mother.

"Do you see that -" I start to say, but I'm cut off by a cry.

"Dad!"

And they're sprinting toward us. I throw my arms around their necks. "You're safe, you're safe," I mutter. "We were so worried!"

"None of us are safe!" my wife throws her hands up in the air. "Follow me to the damn road and let's get out of here! They will _kill_ us!"

People are pushing each other as we file onto the main road, everyone trying to get a spot. As far as the eye can see, a river of people stream away from the district. I turn, looking over my shoulder, trying to catch a final glimpse of our home. Of the bakery.

A low sound begins to rev in the distance. Like thunder, except it doesn't stop. It sounds like… like hovercrafts. Heads crane upward, searching the inky sky for any sign of them. It's not until the noise is practically deafening that we see them. They materialize right over the district. Great grey beasts whose stomachs drop open to let the first bombs cascade over our home. And then the sky falls.

The explosions begin behind us, sending up smoke and fire. The ground shakes and people begin to scream. Families swing their children up on their backs and break into a run.

My legs feel like lead as I join in, my heart beating so quickly I can no longer tell one pulse from another. I'm really shaking now, tripping over the people in front of me as I flee.

Our district. Our home. The only place I've ever known. The bakery. Is it burning away now? The loaves I'd had cooling on the counter and all the old recipe books that have been in my family for generations. I imagine the flames hungrily licking the old waxy paper, relishing every yellowing page. And the old flat? It wasn't much, but it was my home. The second round of bombs shake me to my core, and hot, angry tears well up in my eyes. How could they just take away everything? Burn away our lives like they were nothing?

The pig! What did Peeta name it? Paprika? We forgot to unchain her. She'll be burned to a crisp by now.

"Has anyone seen my sister?"

"My dad?"

"My brother?"

The cries of helpless relatives pierce the throng. There's no going back now.

It's not until the hovercrafts materialize over the road that the world tilts sideways and I feel dizzy. Up ahead, a few dark shapes begin to fall from the air in slow motion.

"Turn back, turn back!" I hear people crying.

But we're blocked in. We can't move! Behind us the dying district, in front of us -

The screaming begins. Terrible, agonized. Orange flames begin to swell in front of us, charring the road and… the people.

They've found us. We're trapped, unable to move. I leap over fallen bodies with their flesh melting off, burning away to grisly black ash. I swallow down bile as someone in front of me drops to the ground. More explosions. I can't see straight. My throat is burning. I feel my foot land on something that crunches sickeningly, but I don't look down. I've lost my grip on my wife and my sons. On reality itself.

A little girl in front of me is screaming for her mother. I reach out for her, but I'm knocked to the ground. When I raise my head, eyes streaming from the smoke and chest heaving, I can see her figure on the ground. Her neck is twisted at an odd angle, snapped by the impact. Holy -

An excruciating sensation begins at my legs and I look down to see my pants on fire. I can't move. White hot fire raced through my body, replacing my blood. I'm detached, floating away from the pain. It's not pain anymore. This can't be pain.

 _Just kill me. Just let me die._

My eyes focus on something in front of my face. A piece of paper, burning away as I am.

Through the murky haze of smoke, screams and pain, I find words. Peeta's words. They're the last thing I see before the blackness takes over.

 _I'll see you on the other side. Love always, Peeta_

* * *

 **A/N-** _A huge thank you to all the people who constantly read and reviewed this story! It was a crazy process, but I loved every moment of it! I'm really sad that this is over :( Thanks for bearing with me!_


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